Hannibal- A Retelling
by Ashed15
Summary: A revision of the story between Clarice & Hannibal based off of Hannibal's line to Clarice, "I think it would be quite something to know you in private life." Hannibal wasn't captured; these characters met under different circumstances. Clarice has been indefinitely suspended from the FBI and begins life anew. Loosely based off of the Book Series. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

Hannibal- Another Retelling

A revision of the story between Clarice and Hannibal. Hannibal was not captured; these characters met under different circumstances. A brassy, determined young agent escapes from a haunting past into a new life as a new person. In this new town, with a new job, no connections, or desire to arouse attention, can Clarice make another life for herself?

Loosely mentions events from the books: Red Dragon, Silence of the Lambs, & Hannibal.

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

This is my story: 

Clarice glanced at her new identification, _Clarice Thrush, Caucasian, 36 years old, and,_ she shuddered _, Ethologist._

What a joke. Clarice thought angrily.

Once an FBI Special Agent in the Behavior Analysis Unit taskforce was now shunned by notorious Deputy Assistant Attorney General Paul Krendler and Senator Ruth Martin.

Had the noble Senator forgotten that her daughter was alive because of the efforts from Clarice and Chief Jack Crawford?!

It didn't matter, Clarice thought. Mr. Crawford had been forcibly retired and decided that it was best if he cut ties with his youngest protégé.

All because of the failed drug raid and the aftermath of her partner, John Brigham's death.

As a last gift from her mentor, Mr. Crawford advised Clarice Starling to use her minor degree in ethology (the study of non-human animal behavior), change her last name, and relocate. He reasoned that because of her poor image with media and Paul Krendler out for her blood, a true fresh beginning was in order. Hidden behind his words were his true meaning, 'you'll never work in law enforcement again without becoming a joke.'

An ex-agent, Will Graham, had a hand in her current whereabouts and provided tips on avoiding the spotlight.

In other words, give up the badge.

So here she was, Clarice Thrush, starting over in Chesapeake, Virginia in a shitbox of an apartment near to the zoo. Where she would study the animals, train them with response stimuli, and document their progress.

She may as well record their bowel movements.

Her savings account had been drained the hour after her final deposition on the drug bust. With her assets liquidated, she said goodbye to her only friend in the world, Ardelia Mapp, and when the out of state judgment granted her new name, she said goodbye to Baltimore.

Clarice sold her Mustang, splurged and purchased a remodeled vintage Harley Davidson Sportster motorcycle, and charged south with only the clothes on her back.

She stared out of the window into a fashionable brick building at a sign that read, Psychiatric Doctor H. Lecter MD.

She cracked her neck and studied her surroundings. The apartment came with meager possessions: a flowered sofa, empty bookcase, desk, bed, drawers, and a few dishes. Clarice grabbed her expensive bag and walked in her cheap shoes down to the local GRAB-N-GO.

Once the groceries and cleaning supplies were purchased, she strode to the DOLLARMART, loaded her cart with the bare necessities, and nearly ran over someone.

"Oh shoot! My apologies, I nearly ran you down!" Clarice exclaimed.

The sleek, stylish man with a subtle, red glint in his eyes stared, "Quite alright, miss. It was my fault for walking in the path of such determination." His voice had a metallic ring, as though it hadn't been used often.

She smiled. "Well, I don't know about all of that."

Never breaking eye contact, the man observed, and said "Well, of course you're determined. The no nonsense purchases in attire have given you away." He peeked into her basket with the briefest of glances. "You have chosen the absolute bare minimum; 5 pairs of black trousers, 5 crisp tan button down shirts, 2 pairs of jeans, and under garments. Should I say congratulations or give my condolences on your new career?"

"I'll let you know." Clarice said dryly and observed a piece of mail with a return address tucked just underneath his pocket lapel. "You must be Doctor Lecter. I saw your practice across from my new apartment." She held out her hand.

He bent at the waist as he theatrically took her palm. His white fedora hat hid black hair specked with silver. His red lips hovered over her skin, never quite touching. Instead, he inhaled deeply. "Ah, I thought I caught L'Air du Temps."

Slightly confused, Clarice hadn't worn that perfume in days. In fact, her former roommate now owned the tiny, half empty French bottle. "That is a keen sense of smell, Doctor."

"And what am I to call you, miss? Little bird, perhaps? My keen sense of smell," He mocked, "is accompanied by sharp eyesight as well."

So he recognized her. Clarice's smile dropped a degree. "I go by Clarice Thrush."

"How interesting. It seems fitting though. A starling, for instance," He thrilled when she flinched, "nestles in with a thick, like-minded flock. No doubt your starling mommy and daddy were of this flock; coated in the dirt and sameness of their flight. But you never settled comfortably. A thrush amongst starlings. Dull, brown, and boring until it opens its beak and elicits the most harmonic melodies. An ambitious little bird, the thrush. And where did all of your ambition land you?" His voice was hypnotizing and harsh; it caused the surroundings to fade away.

She imagined herself as a child; waking in a cold sweat to the shrill sound of screaming lambs. Her breath wisped out in foggy puffs.

But no.

Clarice was here in the checkout aisle of DOLLARMART conversing with a man who could see straight into the very core of her soul.

"Keen smell and sharp eyesight, Doctor, have given you one failing in observation." Clarice watched his eyes sweep her over once more; trying to notice a missing detail to his scrutiny. "I am not your patient." She gave him a tense smile as the noise of the dollar mercantile flooded her senses once again.

"A tough, little thrush. Yes, you are." He tipped his hat, purchased a gallon of bleach, and left the store. "Until we meet again, little bird."

"Goodbye, Dr. Lecter."

His observations made her throat thick with hurt. She hoped that she had hid it well. His words had shaken her spine just the same as when she had unloaded her revolver into Jame Gumb's chest. And into Evelda's.

Clarice made her final purchases, loaded each arm, and bustled down the sidewalk only to have a young woman step into her path.

She reminded Clarice of Evelda Drumgo. The HIV positive mother that had been gunned down by former Special Agent Clarice Starling. Would she always be haunted by that woman? "Can I help you?" She addressed the woman blocking her route.

The homeless woman had attempted to put on a show. Her pupils were dilated, likely from drugs, not starvation or fear. There was no foul, human stench or odor and even the woman's clothing seemed only crumpled, not dirty. A ploy. This woman was desperate for drugs, not food or water or shelter.

"A few dollars to spare? I have a child." The homeless woman stretched her arms out towards a teenage boy. Yes, those were definitely needle marks on the wrist.

Clarice gestured to the boy and made it clear to the woman that she was to stay put. "Help me with these groceries and I'll pay you in food." She offered to the teenager who was nothing but knobby knees and malnourished bones. He eagerly nodded his head. "Madam, I ask that you stay here. Your son will return to you momentarily." The official tone of her voice was clearly the "penal code" policewoman coming out. It would be a long road indeed to remove that tone from Clarice's voice.

The woman grumbled, but couldn't press her luck.

The boy picked up every mercantile sack and followed Clarice into the apartment building. She unlocked her apartment and stepped inside. "When is the last time you had a decent meal?"

"I ate a day ago." He replied timidly.

"Where do you live? And if you tell me that you live in that alley, I'll contact the Sheriff straightaway. Don't you dare lie to me." Clarice passed him a glass of milk and made him a plain bologna and cheese sandwich. "Your mother is a drug user and I know you'd rather stay with her than be in state care, correct?"

He nodded assertively with a mouthful. "She's my older sister. We live with my grandparents. Though, they don't make much money. We're not supposed to be there."

Clarice nodded in understanding. It was likely that the grandparents were incapacitated and on state care themselves. Which would explain his slight protective attitude. A fixed income left the teenager and his crackhead older sister to fend for themselves. "Get yourself back in school and I'll give you a part-time job a few hours a week." She watched him shift uncomfortably. "No exceptions for hard cash well earned. I want to see homework or report cards or something each time I see you. What's your name?"

"Joe Banks." The teen responded in stuttered confusion.

"What's your real name?" She demanded.

"Ian Baker." He said as he unabashedly pushed his empty glass towards the milk jug.

"Ian, help me put these groceries away, wash the dishes, and then you can come back tomorrow." She pulled out a few dollars. "We'll settle payments each day, okay? It won't be much."

He nodded and briskly got to work as Clarice started a load of wash for her new clothes, contacted her new boss for her schedule, and made another sandwich for the boy. "Take that for your sister."

"Deal. Thanks Miss Thrush."

(O)

Hannibal observed through his office window, an acne-faced teenager leave the apartment building carrying a sandwich. He doubted that the former Special Agent would lure the teenager into the throes of passion, as it would create attention. And dear Uncle Jackie Crawford undoubtedly advised the little bird to steer clear of such trouble.

Neither would the little bird would not trouble herself with the inexperience of a mangy, teen boy. Who was now holding out the sandwich to his companion? Curious.

The grotesque female shouted severely, threw out Clarice's charity, and smacked the boy across the temple. He passed her a few dollars and pointed down the street.

Interesting.

He could just make out the word's the drug addled female shouted. 'Well! What did it look like?!' She nodded greedily and looked back up to the second floor window of the apartment where a shoddy fire escape stairwell led.

Infinitely interesting.

Hannibal touched the speaker to his receiver. Brenda, his secretary answered, "Mrs. Novak, please cancel my plans for this evening. You and your husband may use the opera tickets if you wish." She muttered her thanks. "Use the rest of the day to make your arrangements. I can see to the patients myself."

Former Special Agent Clarice Starling now hidden in nowhere Virginia. But how could she think that she could hide? Her very countenance, the unmistakable gunpowder scarred in her shapely cheek from the murderous Buffalo Bill, and red hair paired with bright eyes. He didn't think this little bird was a fool. Starling or Thrush. Whichever she was, she was not a fool.

Hannibal used the morning for sketching and glancing out of the window across the street.

A sudden craving for Lumache in a red wine based fettuccini, with olives, and crisp basil. He kept a divine supply of fresh snails on the arm of a French lad. The mollusks fed off of the decomposing flesh of succulents and oddly enough, Pierre Robear. Once a pastry chef, now rests in a damp snail garden in a cave outside of the city.

Maybe Pierre's decomposing body wouldn't mind a companion? Hannibal mused before greeting his next patient.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal- 2

I do not own the rights to the original story. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

2

Clarice was exhausted from cleaning her dusty apartment. The landlady was a squat of a woman, whose primary income was monthly welfare checks. She had sent her nephew upstairs to admonish Clarice about all of that 'racket'. However, Clarice had stomped downstairs with a list of violations as long as her arm. The building was not up to code on maintenance, lighting, or plumbing. The squat landlady pursed her chubby lips into a thin line and all but slammed the door to get away from her intimidating tenant.

Feeling as pleased as hog with a newfound mud hole, Clarice soaked in a sudsy bath, ignored her lengthy limbs sticking out of the water, and drank her favorite brew. A reward for the accomplishments of the day. She slept on the lumpy bed, happy to be still.

When suddenly, she was jarred awake.

The alarm clock read 2:42 AM. So she had definitely slept. She reached under the pillow only to find her once familiar Glock missing. Clarice had turned over her gun, cellular phone, and badge a week ago. A scraping noise sounded in the living room.

Dammit, she thought.

She was being robbed and instead of feeling anger towards the intruder, it was directed at Deputy Assistant Attorney General Paul Krendler. The evil bastard that was still sore for Clarice's skills as an Agent. Sore that she wasn't charmed by his slimy, words. Sore that when he tried to grasp her body, she slammed him into the ground with enough force to leave him winded and shamed.

Her body was the only weapon she had access to now.

Clarice crouched low near her door and heard the cookie jar open. Where she had hidden her savings. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

Still low to the floor, Clarice emerged into the living room, and shouted. "Freeze! Don't move! Hands against the wall." That same phrase had been a familiar one in the former Agent's vocabulary.

The outline of the skinny teenage boy stood before her. "I'm sorry." He whispered.

A moment too late, Clarice realized that someone stood behind her. The druggie hissed, "Bitch!" Then used a cheap lamp and knocked it against the head of a very pissed off former Special Agent.

Nearly $1,200.00 dollars. Gone.

In a dazed stupor, Clarice watched 2 people charge out of her apartment.

Her body screamed PURSUIT! Yet, there was the nagging voice of Will Graham reminding her to 'drop the badge'.

Dammit.

Stupidly, she thought of the most recent fire-fight. Fucking Evelda Drumgo! That HIV positive crackhead. It unnerved Clarice now of course, that Evelda was a mother. And that baby was now in state care. Just like Ian should be. Too many similarities. He could use that money to take care of his family; she saw that he was capable, able bodied. She knew his concern for his family. But his sister, the crackhead, was another Evelda.

And she had bullied Ian into the robbery.

Clarice's phone cord had been severed.

File a police report? Or handle it herself? Crawford said not to draw attention and hell, she hadn't! This wasn't her fault.

There would be no pursuit.

No chase.

And how her blood boiled, craved it. That sense of law and order.

She used the hours before starting her new job, icing a headache, flicking through an old phone book from 1994, and making a list of potential locations of where Ian Baker and his sister could be. A coffee pot later and a cold bowl of oatmeal, Clarice drove her motorcycle to the zoo.

New beginnings were a pain in the ass.

(O)

Hannibal watched the acne faced teenager and his female companion sprint from the apartment building.

His agile body kept up with them for several blocks as he clung to the shadows of the downtown buildings and alleyways. When they stopped, the boy grumbled about taking the money back.

Curious.

Why rob the hand that feeds only to return it? He had been bullied, perhaps his girlfriend? No, that wasn't it. Similar build and same limp blond hair. She must be a relative. Sister. Yes, that was it. An older bossy sibling used to pushing dear brother in all the wrong directions. The troubled druggie sister now counted the little bird's money.

Hannibal kept the shadows behind him, but made his presence known.

In a quick motion, he slipped a needle into the boys neck, watched his eyes roll back, and he fell to the ground like a stone.

Instead of being afraid for her brother or afraid for herself, the girl watched as Hannibal pulled out another needle. She eyed it with obvious hunger. He tisked, "I hate rude behavior." And he plunged the second needle into her neck. She displayed her throat willingly, however, didn't receive the instant gratification she craved.

Instead, the female's limbs lost their motor control. The fistful of money dropped.

She would feel everything. Every sting. Every tear. Every rip.

"I believe little brother has good intentions, but I always err on the side of caution. Quite unlike yourself. Let's say, half?" Hannibal's gloved hands divided the money equally and shoved half into the teen's soiled pocket. He turned back to the immobile female. "What to do with you?" He watched her try to speak, only to see her mouth open and close like a fish. "Oh, that is a medicinal cocktail of my own devising. It does seem to leave a bitter taste in the mouth, doesn't it? That would be the Avicide. Or commonly known as bird poisoning. Comparatively different from what I gave him." He thumbed to the boy.

The girl continued to gape as he lifted her easily off of the ground.

Hannibal's agility knew few limits.

He used the alley shadows to cover his retreat to the windowless van, where he dumped her with a dull thud. He drove to his home, took his time, and began his regimen with the newest tasty treat.

(O)

Ian woke with a headache unlike any he had ever had. It wasn't quite dawn, but he recognized the dirty alley where he lay. He rolled onto his side, a lump in his pocket. He took it out with a fistful of money. A note scrawled atop was addressed to 'thief' with a Polaroid of Ian and Iris running from Miss Thrush's apartment building. " _There is a duplicate copy of this picture. Return the money to its original owner. Or I will find you again. To bite the hand that feeds is foolish indeed._ "

Ian didn't understand the full meaning of these words, but he knew that if another picture like this surfaced, he would be in trouble. His family would be in trouble. Maybe even held accountable.

He waited until Miss Thrush left on her motorcycle, picked the lock for the second time that night, and returned the money to the cookie jar. He guessed that Iris took the other half and was too scared when that stranger appeared. He didn't blame her, though he hoped that she wasn't held up in a crack house or worse. Dead.

Afterwards, he went home, checked on his grandparents, and rode the bus to school for the first time in a month.

Maybe if he applied himself, one day he could earn forgiveness from his family and himself. All he knew was that his sister was gone and as much as he hated to admit it and as much as he wanted her safe, maybe she was gone for good. She was a leech. A bully. The reason that he starved and the reason he wasn't in school.

He wasn't stupid.

But he obviously wasn't a genius.

Time would tell.


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal- 3

I do not own the rights to the original story. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

3

The Chesapeake Zoo held a myriad of mammals, reptiles, birds, and sea creatures.

Clarice's office was piled with camera and filming equipment, beakers, test tubes, and data. A small bug eyed girl bounced to attention.

"Mrs. Thrush? Hi, I'm Dr. Melissa Hughes, you're early. Good, that's real good!" It came out as a single breath. "I'll show you the lab first and then I'm afraid that it's paperwork, paperwork, paperwork." She repeated in a high pitch. "You'll be using everything here to document each animal, it usually takes a full day to go through the whole zoo. We're collecting research to help with other containment facilities. Really, we're pioneers." The woman smiled toothily.

Clarice grinned at the strange enthusiasm. This wasn't her first choice in a career, but she didn't give an opinion. "It's just Miss. Not Missus. I'm not married."

"Oh, right, right, right." She emphasized the word.

"I appreciate you showing me around. I don't take field work lightly and I'm familiar with most of this equipment." She waited a beat. "Where did these animals come from?"

"Only a few have been born in captivity, a dozen or so were donated, but most have been captured. Wolves, bears, snakes, birds, and several dozens of nocturnal creatures." Dr. Hughes said.

"Would you agree that most of these animals behave aggressively during feeding time?"

Dr. Hughes nodded gravely. "Oh yes. But of course, that is the when all of the families want to see them." She passed over a Polaroid of a shattered containment cell.

Clarice observed the point of impact. A large circle of cracked glass surrounded by spider veined splinters. "You have Grizzly bears here?"

The Doctor nodded again. "How'd you guess?"

"The impact is near the top of the containment cell. The bear was probably standing on its hind legs. Something angered it." Clarice imagined young families pressing their snotty noses against the window, beating on it to get a reaction. "Are you the vet here?"

"Oh, heavens no. She's just an assistant. Melissa, would you please get us some fresh coffee? The pot has gone sour." A smarmy, slimy grub worm. Instead of being angry with the obvious condescension, Melissa scampered off like a good little dog. "I'm Doctor Frederick Chilton, the veterinarian. I must say that I was interested to hear from a former patient of mine, Mr. Will Graham. You see, I also practice Psychiatry. Will gave you a high recommendation, though, I guess that is because detectives stick together." He leaned in to whisper, "your secret is safe here. Will and Mr. Jack Crawford are some of my closest companions and I would like our relationship to be open and honest."

Clarice managed the best smile that she could and quickly decided that flattery was the key to getting this man out of her face. "My former colleges gave high recommendations for this facility; they failed to mention that I'd be working with a Vet Shrink."

He ground his teeth at the word 'shrink'. "Well, I don't practice psychiatric work as often as I did prior to my accident." A nervous tick settled in his scarred cheek. "You must be Jack's taste, though, shame what happened to Bella. Cancer. Poor man will never get over it." He gave her a once over to gauge her reaction to his familiarity with her former boss. "Though, I think it is interesting that he took such care with your future instead of his own."

"Well, the FBI was not a charm school. I wouldn't know much about his personal life or his career motivations." She could barely keep out the distaste in her tone.

"Good." He growled; sensing her disgust with him. "The director will be in soon, but I'm to give the formal introductions and rules. Do not reach through the bars of any cage that is in my lab. Do not misplace any items in my office or lab. Use the sliding food carrier in a calm manner. No loud noises or unnecessary banter in the lab. These animals are under enough strain and when I examine them, I'd prefer NOT to have my face chewed off." He leered at her. "Do you understand everything as I've told you?"

"I understand entirely."

"Restraints and mouth guards may be necessary, but the technician, Barney will perform those tasks. Listen to Barney and you'll get by perfectly." He passed her a photo. "That is what happened to a nurse here who failed to heed the rules. Mason came too close to the electric eel and as you can see, did not come out a winner."

Clarice gave a brief glance to the photo and returned it.

Annoyed, he snapped his fingers to a very large dark complexioned man. "Barney, take Miss Thrush to the director. She can begin her paperwork now. The tour should wait."

Barney was a massively built person. Linebackers would come to his elbows. "Nice to meet you." His voice was not deep like she expected. "I was on my way to feed the fish, you're welcome to come, or I can take you to the director now."

"Nice to meet you, too. I'm Clarice. I'd like to see the fish if it won't get ya into trouble."

He gave a little smirk. "Nah, it'll be okay. Each room has a monitor that feeds to the director's office. If there's a problem, he pages me, and if I need to, I get help. I can usually manage most animals, but of course I'm sure Chilton showed you what happened to Mason." He watched Clarice nod. "I can't see everything."

As promised, she spent the rest of the morning discussing her position with the director, filling out paperwork, and finally toured the zoo in the afternoon. When she came home, she felt every ounce of her body weigh her down. She raided the fridge, poured some milk, and opened the cookie jar to find a different dessert.

$600.00 dollars.

Not the full amount, but Clarice was surprised nonetheless.

(O)

Hannibal walked to the top floor of his building to peer inside the apartment.

Clarice slept on the tacky carnation embroidered sofa. 2 new bolt locks had been added to the door. His red lips curved into a smile. Yes, the former Special Agent was unaccustomed to sleeping without her marshalled weapon. He thought, perhaps, he saw a metallic glint under the green pillow.

Expecting company, little bird?

He clicked the lights off in his office to ready himself for a dinner party.

The guests included Dr. Frederick Chilton and Dr. Alan Bloom. Some would consider this a meeting of the minds. Hannibal may genuinely enjoy Alan's company, but Frederick's? Certainly not.

No, his old colleague had information on former Special Agent Clarice Starling.

 _Tonight's menu:_

 _Sea Urchins served on a creamy bed of garlic pasta, topped with rich parmesan flakes, and served with a bold Viognier. Lemon mousse topped with nutmeg wafers would be served for dessert_.

Frederick's sensitivity for certain foods, notwithstanding, had been taken into account. No detail escaped Hannibal's notice. He would pay particular attentions to any details about the former Special Agent. For some unknown reason, she had piqued his interest.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal- 4

I do not own the rights to the original story. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

4

Finally, the weekend had arrived. Friday evening, Clarice found herself bored and itching for action. Idle time wasn't normal.

She was accustomed to stake outs, case research, profiling, or at the very least, the gun range. The heavy weight of the tactical headgear. The pull of the trigger. The unmistakable bullet holes blown through the center of her targets. Clarice had the fastest trigger finger in the FBI and here she was in Chesapeake, Virginia, wasting those fingers snapping pictures and briefing the behaviors of gators, groundhogs, and copperheads.

Idle time was torture.

She felt a seething hatred for Paul Krendler; who was probably sipping on smooth brandy and furthering his political career by sucking on the asses of government officials. His long neck and hyena ears prosed to quirk at any mention of climbing the governmental ladder. His chase of Buffalo Bill was supposed to land him just underneath the Director of the FBI. And then Clarice followed instincts instead of the path of those grub worms and ruined his chance to be in the spotlight… Paul hated her as much as she hated him.

It was why he poisoned her career every chance he could.

Slimy prick.

Clarice dressed for a run and took off as though the past were chasing her. Because, in a way, it was. Dusk settled as she rounded through the park. Orange-gold rays glinted off of the pond and into her eyes. Momentarily blinding her.

A metallic voice startled her. "Good evening, Clarice."

Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat with a picnic basket on a bench near the pond. He threw a cracker to the swans.

"Dr. Lecter!" She jerked. "A nice spring evening for a picnic."

"Indeed, it is a wonderful evening." He moved his basket. "Would you like to join me? I have butter crackers, fresh water caviar, and icy Ciroc vodka."

"I'm afraid that I wouldn't be much of a companion this evening, Doctor." She sat anyway.

"A troubled mind leads to a troubled heart which leads to a troubled soul. And little bird, you have had much trouble since your Buffalo Bill days. Tell me? Do you often see the fire fight? The flash of gunpowder lighting up the darkness. Do you feel him hunting you in the obscurity of the night? I read the details of the case through tabloids, but it is only half truths, I gather."

"Every time I close my eyes," She sat, "I see the ricochet of my bullets as they tore through…"

Clarice missed how his eyes lit up at her admission.

It was silent for a few beats.

"However did you escape indictment?"

"By coming here. By agreeing to drop the badge. Forever." Clarice blew out an exhausted breath. "I can't work as an agent, officer, meter maid, security, or private investigator. The moment could present itself and it would be ripped away from me quicker than slapping a skeeter bite."

He passed her a ceramic cup with a bit of vodka and raised his own. "To health."

"To health." Clarice repeated.

"How is your new career choice? Do you find it as interesting as the F. B. I." He pronounced each letter with a flourish.

"I found it interesting years ago; especially when paired with the druggies who're a prime example of ethology study." She took another offering of the smooth vodka. "It pays the bills, which is what counts."

"You don't find it rewarding." He observed. His voice as sleek as a scalpel. "I couldn't imagine a worse fate than being in an audience with Dr. Frederick Chilton indefinitely. A cruel, rude narcissist with zero morality. Like attending a concerto, only to find the violinist lacking on the bow strings."

"He's a dreamboat compared to Paul Krendler."

"I don't know that man personally, but my acquaintances inform me that he is just as you say. Such interesting company you kept. Jack Crawford. Paul Krendler. Buffalo Bill. And the most recent bust of course, dear old Evelda. Your parents must be thrilled."

(O)

Hannibal watched gooseflesh appear on Clarice's fair skin at the mention of parents. Ooh, he hit a nerve. He relished her reaction to his words. To him. Patient or not, little bird, confession is what the Doctor craves.

"My parents died when I was young."

"Tell me, was it your mother or father that was in law enforcement?" He asked, though he knew the answer.

She took a moment to clear her throat before she answered. "My daddy."

So he died while on duty, Hannibal observed by her quiet reaction. "Where did you live after you were orphaned?" He enjoyed the way her West Virginian accent thickened when recalling the painful memories. Her voice was rich like the soil of a wheat field. Not dusty the way her father's voice probably coughed out. Like the coal mines of their home.

"Doctor Lecter, I mean no disrespect, but I'm not ready to talk about the past when my present is so awfully fucked up. Please excuse me." Clarice stood to leave and paused a moment. "One day, you may ask me that question again. In fact, I think I'd be ready to talk about it; just not right now." There were no tears, but there was a touch of hostility.

Such passion from the honest bird.

He gave a single nod in understanding. "My door is open whenever you wish to talk. Oh and 1 other thing, be watchful of that skewer Chilton. He is a briny boor." He thrilled at her blunt honesty. It was refreshing and callous. Like the sea urchin delicacy. He wondered if after persistent poking and prodding of Clarice's salty skin, would she too, open to reveal a tender center just as the urchin had?

Clarice had been bred of the institution and as she sped away from him in her cheap sneakers, he wondered what would become of this little bird.

He opened the basket to reveal the other half of Clarice's savings. He could not give it to her, as it would sever that connection. 1 that he did not consciously make.

His pager buzzed.

"Ah, dear Margot Verger." He said aloud, a bit annoyed with the interruption of introducing Clarice into his mind palace. "What has your brother done now?"

Hannibal arrived leisurely at the rear exit of his office. The night had fallen heavily, which cast his white skin in a neon glow. A deep breath inhaled gave the slight taste of a spring rain. Yes, he imagined the blossoms blooming in Lithuania. Mischa dancing amongst the yellow rues.

He shook his thoughts, turned on a single light, positioned the chairs across from each other, and made a cocktail for Margot that consisted of rhubarb tea and a powerful hallucinogenic.

Margot Verger would have been a vision of a woman years ago.

Her once deep brown hair, was now pale and had receded away from her face. Testosterone therapy. The poster board for sibling abuse. Her bully brother had a hold on her that Hannibal could never wrench apart. Not with a pair of pliers or a cranial saw. Even now when she could literally crush Mason's head just as she crushed those walnuts together. A powerful body; lean and lethal. Forever a lioness caught under her lion's jaws.

"Good evening, Margot."

"Doctor." Her hoarse voice greeted.

"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow. What has happened? What has Mason done?"

"He said that he wouldn't do it!"

She referred to her request for artificial insemination. Her female companion agreed to bear Mason's child so long as the sadist was nowhere near her.

"Are you surprised that he refused you? Even after a little promise?"

"No. Yes. Actually, yes!" Her voice scratched. "I've done everything for him since the accident. He is comfortable. Orders people around. Gets his jollies off by fucking with those families. He tells those children horror stories and has his man servant steal their tears for his afternoon martinis. It's sick."

"Man servant? Am I to understand that you no longer serve his menial tasks?"

"Not that." She obediently took her cocktail.

It was always the same with Margot. She would give Mason everything out of fear. He would forever scare her; the little girl that grew into a large man-like boor. Even gender confused, Margot held beauty.

"Margot focus on the light." Hannibal's voice became soft, hypnotic.

"I thought it was revenge; for his face. He said that he had been lured there, the zoo, by someone." He voice became dreamy and childlike. "But now I don't know. Maybe he wanted something from Chilton; he comes to the mansion for dinner sometimes. But he can't look Mason in the eye…" She giggled sluggishly… "His eyes are so gross. They have to be moistened manually."

The drugs were taking effect.

"Margot, I wonder if you've given thought to taking what is rightfully yours."

"Nothing is mine, Doctor. Mason. Mason. Mason." She chanted. "The mansion. The money. The minions. My cherry." She began laughing, but it soon turned to sobs. "Judy loves me. She accepts me. My father's will clearly states the bylaws of inheritance through heirship."

Hannibal used the hallucinations to coax Margot out of victimizing herself. He felt close, but it would take a few more sessions and a time away from Mason before she would wrench herself free.


	5. Chapter 5

Hannibal- 5

I do not own the rights to the original story. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

 _*Note to reader- this chapter has graphic and violent imagery_

5

The dining room fireplace cast a warm glow. Several arrangements of lightly scented flowers surrounded the rooom. The wall opposite the fireplace held rows of freshly potted herbs and crystal candle holders. The candlelight sparkled in dazzling reflections amongst the thyme, sage, and mushrooms.

A room full of several bodies; Dr. Frederick Chilton and Dr. Melissa Hughes. The bug eyed counterpart whose lengthy speech was uttered in a single breath. She yipped at Chilton's heels like a chittering squirrel. Frederick's spine and limping walk seemed to have straightened in Melissa's audience. He lapped up the attention hungrily; almost as hungrily as Melissa offered it.

Frederick didn't deserve admiration. Hannibal saw himself snuffing out that esteem.

He relished the idea.

Dr. Alan Bloom and his wife Vanessa, whose stifling perfume blinded Hannibal's nose from the delicacy he was currently preparing, sat in silent observation of the open flame of Hannibal's stove. They were familiar with the art of food preparation in the Lecter manor and respectfully ignored the ridiculous couple seated across from them.

Hannibal whisked, flipped, and basted all while enjoying the showy preparation.

A shallot marinade over the finest pair of lungs Iris Baker could offer.

His mallet pounded and brazened the meat after it soaked in salt water overnight. Thankfully, the pH rebalanced and pulled out the acidic flavor left by the addict's drugs. In fact, a pinch of saffron drowned out the atrocious scent from Vanessa's fragrance.

He swiped his sleek kitchen knife in five precise motions, flash fried the lungs over an open flame, and arranged each filet over a bed of spicy vegetables. The spongy meat complimented the Aperitif that Alan now poured for the quintet. A drink prone to stimulate hunger.

"Did you see the latest victim?" Frederick asked the room. "They've decided to call him 'The Chesapeake Butcher'. _The Tattler's_ latest headline claims that the body that was found was the latest in a series of un-profileable slaughters."

"Meaning what, Frederick?" Alan challenged. "That these murders are too random to be measured? To be profiled? That was how they depicted poor Dr. Abel Gideon."

"It beats what these local officers have. It wouldn't surprise me though." Frederick replied. "I'm surprised that the FBI are not involved. Of course, they're trying to prevent the latest scandal over that drug bust gone awry. Tacky."

Hannibal paused as he listened to the conversation. " _The Tattler_ has become lazy with their nicknames." He offered a teasing smile to Alan, who shared the same distaste in that source of media. "Perhaps these slaughters are random for the sake of being random. They're not the same person."

"Do you really believe that Dr. Lecter?" Vanessa asked drunkenly.

"There is more than meets the eye, Vanessa. I'm sure that rancid newspaper had more facts than the local Sheriff's Department." Alan said sarcastically. "Law enforcement…"

"What-about-their-missing-parts? You-can't-really-believe-that-is-a-coincidence!" Melissa interjected in a single breath. "I-mean-it's-all-right-there-because-its-missing! Organs-just-poof-gone-as-though-the-killers-were-building-a-Frankenstein-or-something!"

Frederick laughed as if she were ridiculous. "Have another drink, Melissa. Your anxiety is showing." He turned to Hannibal. "She has an anxiety disorder; it causes the temporal lobe to act out with imagination."

The chef refrained from rolling his eyes as he rotated the burner.

"What's that?" Melissa asked in a calmer voice as she breathed in the aroma of spices. "It smells like it has soured or something. What-are-we-eating-did-you-cook-something-expired?!" Her paced chitter returned.

Hannibal pursed his lips at such an openly rude accusation. "I'd never prepare something that has spoiled, though, the topic of expiration is at hand." He referred to the killings to redirect the conversation. His words charmed the audience effectively.

"Hannibal," Alan started, "Dinner smells wonderful. I think it helps to enhance our flavor pallets; watching you prepare such exquisite dishes. Like watching Van Gogh paint a ' _Starry Night'_ or Botticelli's ' _Birth of Venus'_ … the master making a chef-d'oeuvre."

He smiled at his old friend as he set the final dish and took his place at the head of his table. "I'm no such artist, but I thank you, friend. Bon appetite."

(O)

Clarice spent Sunday searching for leads on Ian Baker's location. He hadn't reappeared since the night he robbed her. She'd known that he returned at least half of the money out of guilt. Maybe he had used the other half to better his situation. Take care of his ailing grandparents. Or maybe he was the newest victim of the 'Chesapeake Butcher'.

But she doubted that.

She went for a jog, stopped at a garage sale, and purchased a few items for herself and her little apartment. Some soft flannel. A long corded phone for the living room. A few vintage motorcycle magazines. And blank paint-by-numbers posters. The beige walls, ceilings, and floors were becoming blinding and watercolor paints were only a dollar at the corner pharmacy.

She completed 2 paintings, hung them, and retired early. Boredom still itched her skin.

Monday morning Clarice left for work a little early and walked into her lab. Coffee mug in tow, she flipped on the light switch to a room of red.

Red painted on the walls. On the floors. On the ceilings.

This room was not blinding or boring.

But it was not paint. It was blood.

Thick, stinking, and coppery. Clarice could taste it. She thought she would taste it forever. Blood followed her footsteps no matter where she was.

Dr. Melissa Hughes had been split into 2 halves.

Deceased sometime yesterday. The body had been here for at least 15-20 hours.

The left half of her back faced the door where Clarice now stood. It was as clean and white as a sheet and was deliberately posed… as if she were testing a sample. The left side of the lab coat too, was split and clean. Exactly down the pleated seamline. Precise. Perfect.

Her left arm was suspended using a series of trap lines; animal grasping poles. The elbow slightly crooked, the wrist bent towards her eyes, and her fingertips positioned around the lab equipment.

Clarice observed that Melissa's left hand literally held a scoopula.

A device used to transfer solid objects between test areas.

It was Melissa's right half that was sprayed over every surface of the lab. As though it had exploded. Or melted. Red sludgy goo. Bone fragments, slabs of skin, muscles. The other half of the organs… were missing? Right ventricle, right kidney, right lung, gallbladder, and even the right hemisphere of the brain. Gone.

The part responsible for creativity. Personality. Intuition.

All taken. Deliberately.

Clarice observed all of this in under a minute. She remained alert as she reached for her own ankle blade, walked to the inner office phone, and dialed 9-1-1. Her breathing increased, but not audibly. Her senses opened up.

And she felt alive.

Clarice told the dispatcher that it had appeared that she was the first one on the scene. Because she did not have a lab key, Clarice wedged a chair under the handle. It was the best method she had available to secure the scene of the crime. Lock it down so there was no contamination. She waited on the line with the dispatcher.

It was another 15 minutes before she heard shuffling noises in the outer offices.

Another 15 minutes before she heard the sirens.

Dr. Chilton's droning voice sounded frustrated. He demanded to know what had happened in HIS lab. Clarice heard the entire conversation between him and the officer. Who now, finally, appeared to take over the scene. The response time of Chesapeake officers was 32 minutes. Pitiful.

"Officer Grant, I'm Clarice Thrush." Her rehearsal of her new name had paid off as she hadn't stuttered it this time. "I'm the one who called dispatch to report the crime. I've secured the scene. It appears that I was the first one here this morning; probably the first to have entered since the crime." She called it crime instead of murder.

She didn't want to become personal. She had barely known Dr. Hughes.

"Crime?!" Chilton's face contorted. "Just what on earth is going on here? I'm in charge here until the Director arrives. I'm the Veterinarian!"

Clarice continued. "Officer, if anyone on your squad has a sensitive stomach, they should try to avoid that lab."

"Please remove the chair." Officer Grant said to the other officer.

The door swung open and the smell hit them. It forced the unnamed officer from the room. Clarice heard him puking in the receptionist's waste basket. Officer Grant seemed to steel himself. He was older, but sturdy. Like an aged orchard ladder. A few seasons in the rain didn't stop him from doing his job.

Chilton's face become opaque. His knees buckled and he hit the carpet hard just as Barney peered in the doorway. "My God! That's Melissa. I just saw her Saturday."

Officer Grant stopped snapping pictures and walked over to the group. "Mrs. Thrush, I need your full statement. Dr. Chilton, you too." His face was a mask of disgust.

"Yes sir. I understand. And," She added dismissively, "It is 'miss' not 'missus'." Clarice knew too well the procedures that the Officer was reviewing in his own mind. She knew that he had never seen such a horrific image. Never seen that much blood. He was from Virginia, so, he likely hunted or fished. He knew blood. But not like this.

He didn't know it like she did.

Another set of officers rushed into the room. Each of them tried to hide their repulsion. The ones that couldn't, hovered over Clarice, Barney, and Chilton as a way of working without actually working. Barney remained silent, but helpful to Chilton and the officers.

Their report forms were outdated, but she managed to write a full 5 pages on what she saw. On what she saw for them. Because she was no longer an officer or an agent or even a meter maid.

That didn't mean that Clarice could just 'turn off' that part of her mind.

Questions and observations ran quickly through Clarice's brain. What had Melissa been testing? Did she know her killer? There was no expression of horror. No struggle or forced entry. The room was unlocked. Melissa's back was to whomever entered. Her eyebrow quirked as if in concentration, not fear or even surprise. She must have known this person.

Who had done this? Clarice thought.

Whispers of the 'Chesapeake Butcher' echoed in the lab all morning. It was a long day when Clarice was finally released to go home.

The officers shot speculative looks in her direction, no doubt, it was because of her professional and thorough report. A former Special Agent of the FBI, Clarice Starling.

Hannibal's words taunted her mind.

As she raced away from the crowded scene, she did not notice the unblinking red-eyed stare coming from behind Dr. Lecter's office window as she entered the apartment building.


	6. Chapter 6

Hannibal- 6

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

*Note to Reader- this chapter contains sexual content

6

Paul Krendler excused himself into the Senator's lavatory. The elaborate lake house was highly decorated with lawn ornaments, oil paintings, topiaries, and smelled like the old woman herself: Senator Ruth Martin. The lawn crawled with officials, surveillance, representatives, and several established business owners.

His face hurt from the false smiles and pretentious favors. But he'd sacrifice anything to seat himself next to the Senator in the office.

He and his wife had been invited to an informal barbeque to celebrate his latest advancement to Congressman.

Paul now only answered to the Director, the Senator, and the Governor.

Definitely on his way up.

The downstairs lavatory had been directed especially for the guests, but Paul snuck up the grand staircase to have a deeper look into the reclusive lives of the Senator and her daughter, Catherine. The last victim of Buffalo Bill. Before Clarice Starling had blown a round of bullets through his body.

The brass handle of the medicine cabinet groaned under Paul's tight grip.

That corn-pone country pussy nearly cost him his job, had embarrassed him in front of the Senator, and caused the Director of the FBI to write a formal report over Paul's incompetent profiling of that serial murderer. It wouldn't be erased from his record. Ever.

Paul's personal beeper went off, but he ignored it. Senator Martin's bathroom was much more interesting than some snot nosed twerp at the office who jumped a mile high after a loud fart.

He chuckled at his own joke. He'd have to remember to tell it again Monday.

Hmm, the cabinet held several high doses of medication for anxiety, sleep deprivation, nutritional deficiencies, and depression.

He pocketed a few in his khaki boat shorts.

He washed his hands and face with a high label soap and dried his hands.

The door knocked softly in a pattern. He opened to see Shelley Cooper, one of the office bitches. A young, red headed copy girl with a snub nose and a wide mouth. Paul leered at her blue cotton romper as she stumbled into the bathroom with a giggle. The girl had been making eyes at him since the announcement of his promotion the week after Clarice's unofficial dismissal.

"I snuck some champagne." Shelley took the bottle from behind her back.

Paul opened it using a towel to muffle the 'pop' sound.

He took a swig and poured a bit into her wide mouth.

The girl turned to take off her shoes and he took the opportunity to slip his hand up her romper. He slowly shoved a few fingers inside, pumped a few times, and enjoyed her squirming backside as it danced against his dick.

When his wrist tired, she turned, snapped his belt off quickly, and took his member into her mouth. The sudden action was luckily balanced out by the alcohol, otherwise, he would have orgasmed on the spot. It was a few minutes before he exploded into her mouth. The little slut lapped it up, which both impressed and sickened Paul.

He used the Senator's fine towels to clean himself as Shelley left.

When he exited the bathroom, he noticed the door across the hallway was cracked open.

(O)

Catherine Martin stood in the shadows of her room listening to the unmistakable noises of intercourse.

She had begged her mother not to have the party, but mother told her that she didn't have to attend. Crowds made her uncomfortable. All of the stares. People who wanted to know every detail about her experiences with that psycho who would haunt her nightmares until she died.

Precious glanced up from her pillow as if she recognized Catherine's thoughts. The little dog's right eye had whitened over from age.

"You're her, aren't you?" The man asked as he adjusted himself.

"I heard you and that girl in there." She accused.

"How come you never come out in the daylight? Did Bill turn you into a vampire?" He snorted at his comment.

"How come you're not using the downstairs bathroom? Mother's SWAT team would be interested to know that you're snooping in our house." She enjoyed the fear as it crossed his sallow face.

He leaned against the door of the bathroom. "You look a lot different than you did before Buffalo Bill. Did he do things to you? Sex and stuff." His eyes widened hopefully. "I bet he did all kinds of fucked up stuff. He was a real sick pervert."

"And not the only pervert I've ever met." Catherine retorted.

"You're better looking than you were. Good thing you lost that weight." He went back in the bathroom and tossed a bottle at her. "Keep taking those so you're not thrown down another hole to be starved for your hide and turned into a dress."

They were her nutrition supplements. He must've been snooping.

She slammed the door in his face and listened to his meaty chuckle as he walked down the stairs. The creepy bastard.

She'd have enough of those in her lifetime.

Catherine snuggled Precious at her windowsill that overlooked the party and saw the creepy man join a skinny brunette. Probably his wife. Because it definitely wasn't the red headed girl who exited the bathroom. Who was now giving him the evil eye from across the pool.

(O)

Monday morning, the office was bristling with noise. Paul strode doggedly into his office, annoyed that they still hadn't changed the label on his door. Shelley sauntered seductively over to him, took his coat, hat, and delivered several written messages; most extending congratulations. But the last was from M. Verger.

Paul's eyes bulged out of his head as he barked at Shelley to hold all of his calls and meetings until he emerged from his office. She blanched, but nodded.

Cordell answered after the first ring. "Have you heard?"

"What are you talking about?!" Paul glanced guiltily at his pager. It had beeped nearly all weekend.

He hadn't checked in with Cordell or Mason in a few days. They were undoubtedly calling to congratulate him, or so he thought. Now Paul wasn't sure.

"Starling discovered Chilton's piece of ass this morning… dead. In the lab. There is mention that it is the 'Chesapeake Butcher'." Cordell said. "Chilton has been calling since he entered the lab. Complaining about how Starling has been dictating the local officers and how they're eating out of her charming little palm."

The second phone line interjected, "There is also mention," The sound of gargled breathing indicated Mason's voice, "that Starling has impressed the local law enforcement. My sources say that damn bitch has been offered her insights. They want her as a contracted expert on the criminal mind."

"What?!" Paul bellowed.

"She and a Doctor named Hannibal Lecter. Make sure you remember that name, Krendler. You do remember that name? Don't you?" Mason's slurping rattle gagged Paul. He imagined nasty bubbles pooling at the corners of the ruined mouth.

"He was the quack that you and Chilter are after."

"Chilton. Like talking to a gorilla, Cordell."

Paul rolled his eyes at the insult. "What do you have against Lecter? Did he give you the wrong prescription or something?" He chortled.

"I don't have to fucking explain myfelf to you!" His voice slurred over the 's'. "You've been paid. That bitch, Ruth Martin, keep her in your pocket and I'll keep the money flowing. Just do what I tell you to. Remember, I own you now."

It was true.

Mason could incriminate Paul for extortion.

And Verger's pockets ran deep. Connections were even deeper.

"I'll keep Starling out of the investigation, but the FBI will likely be stepping in to take over the case. The Director had been reluctant to dismiss Starling. Remember, she was Crawford's little protégé." Stupid corn-poned country pussy. He'd never get rid of her. "What is it that you want?"

"Keep the information flowing. You want to be paid. I want the info. Got it?"

He heard the distinct sound of the phone slamming down on the receiver. Cordell was still on the line. "Mason wants any and all information on Lecter and Starling, which is why Dr. Chilton is so well placed. Do you think he got the position of head veterinarian by accident? Chilton's psychiatric license was revoked after a patient attacked him. A patient that had been recommended by Hannibal Lecter. You may remember Abel Gideon, the psycho who killed all 6 of his psychiatrists."

"Okay, I get it. But what kind of information does Mason want? I can only learn so much from field reports."

"I don't think field reports are going to cover it. You need to go to Chesapeake."

Paul swore every curse word he had ever learned. "I can't just drop everything here!"

"That's too bad. You know how Mason gets." Cordell reminded. "Especially when he has paid in advance."

"Fine." Paul barked. "I'll go to fucking Chesapeake, Virginia." It better be worth it. He added mentally.


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal- 7

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris

7

Chief Officer Rick Grant listened to the red-haired beauty with rapt attention.

At first, he was hesitant about letting the ex-agent profile the case. He was strictly by-the-books when it came to the rules. But after seeing the squeamishness of his own officers, he yielded. How was it that this audacious woman with the subtle gunpowder marked in her cheek could show no fear?

When all others turned their heads, she didn't.

In minutes, she had given observations, theories, and located evidence.

She was calm and orderly. Much like himself.

His pager vibrated his belt loop and he dialed into the office. "Chief Grant, is this Director of the FBI, Mr. Tunberry?"

"Yes, Chief Grant. I'll keep this short as this line is not exactly secure."

Rick bristled at the low hazard. "Excuse me?"

"You've placed a call regarding a murder that you suspect to be as the same MO as the 'Chesapeake Butcher'. Your team includes yourself, Officer Taggers, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and Clarice Thrush." A beat. "Also known by Ex-Special Agent Starling."

"Correct." Rick answered defensively. "Director, she is quick, intuitive, and has more spine than my entire department…"

"Look, I know." Tunberry interrupted. "What you don't know is that Starling's career has been terrorized by Congressman Paul Krendler. For every success she made, Krendler was there to put the screws to her. End of story. She wasn't political enough and now that she is back on the radar, you're going to be thoroughly bridled."

"By Krendler, you mean?" Rick asked. "Guilty by association. That is the biggest load of bullshit."

"True enough. But look, Jack Crawford put himself in the line of fire for Starling and he was forcibly retired. His wife died of cancer and he isn't in the best shape himself. Just watch your ass and try to keep Starling out of Krendler's path. He'll be on your front doorsteps within the hour." He exhaled. "I guarantee it."

Rick hung up.

A warning. The Director of the FBI had given him a warning.

He walked back into the basement and watched the Ex-Special Agent working as diligently as if it were any other day at the office. She had been unfairly dismissed by the FBI.

(O)

The Chesapeake Coroner's Office was adjacent to the police station and paired on the backside of the city funeral home. Officers crowded the doorway leading into the basement as a show of being helpful without actually doing anything.

Clarice rolled her eyes in frustration at their lack of spine.

It wasn't as though these men hadn't seen death, she relented. Certainly, there was the occasional domestic assault taken too far. And everyone had experienced the 'shaking baby' deaths. As awful as they were, it was too common. Maybe a bar fight or a clean gunshot murder. No, Clarice decided that these typical burly small town officers had never seen a death as gruesome as Dr. Melissa Hughes.

Officer Grant offered Clarice free range of the police station's equipment.

Clarice opted for the handheld voice recorder, a flash fill camera, and other forensic tools. Everything in her view was familiar. And yet, she saw it all as if it were down a long, never-ending tunnel. She had forfeited this life as a means to avoid indictment.

She stood over the body; an acquaintance and coworker.

Poor, poor Melissa.

The left half of her body was entirely intact and pristine. The right half, however, sat in several pans of liquidized mush.

She took a deep breath and pressed record. "Female. Caucasian. 62 inches. Weight undetermined as the entire right portion has been…" Clarice faltered for the term.

"I think the phrase you're searching for is loosely known as the 'liquidized effect'. It usually takes place after a severe burn has killed some poor soul." Dr. Lecter appeared in the doorway. "Not to be confused with the…"

"Wick effect." Clarice answered after clicking off the recorder.

"Working in law enforcement again, Clarice? Shall I refer to you as officer or maybe detainee? The FBI will have kept their eye trained on you." He warned. "I don't believe Uncle Jackie Crawford would appreciate your derelict duties as the newest ethologist."

"I think that is a bit unfair." Officer Grant interjected.

"Officer, Dr. Lecter is correct. I am no longer an agent of the law and I must insist…"

He waved his hands. "As the Chief of Police in Chesapeake, I'm going to insist that you remain an outside source. I know your situation. Baltimore isn't that far from here and in my eyes, you'll remain Special Agent Clarice Starling. I need eyes on this case if I'm to get a handle on this killer, I must insist. And my men don't have the mindset nor the stomach for such repulsion. I've called Dr. Lecter to give any expertise that he can offer."

"Officer, I'm sure that you've followed the outrageous accusations of Clarice's character on national headlines, so you're undoubtedly aware that indictment looms over her head." Dr. Lecter added. "Especially if she is involved in any way with criminal investigations."

Grant turned to Clarice. "I can go to the Commissioner or hell, even the Senator if I must."

"You may as well sign my prison sentence, Officer." Clarice responded dryly.

"Might I offer a suggestion?" Dr. Lecter asked respectfully.

(O)

Hannibal savored the way the light reflected off of Clarice's red hair. Her delicate wrists honed into the equipment with ease and expertise. She hadn't noticed him standing in the doorway; weaving through the crowd of cowardly law enforcement who reeked of cheap cologne and coffee.

The little bird was trying to spread her wings.

If she wasn't careful, the FBI would quickly clip her. And the world was much more interesting with her in it.

"What do you have in mind Doctor?" The Chief asked and lowered his voice as he explained the recent phone call between him and Director Tunberry. "It seems that Congressman Krendler is to make an appearance within the hour, so whatever your suggestion is Dr. Lecter, please make it quickly."

Hannibal gave a slight bow of proclivity. "Simply that any discussion and insights of the case file be handled through myself. Photo copies can be made of all of Clarice's work today and because this case seems to be linked to the 'Chesapeake Butcher', your position would have access to all of the FBI murder profiles. You would have unlimited access to myself," He nodded to Clarice who also agreed with a nod, "and the finest Ex-Special Agent of the F. B. I." He enjoyed the way she shivered under his voice at the mention.

"Work on the case in secret?" Clarice said with disgust. "I'm not ashamed of what happened nor of my situation Doctor."

Such spirit. "Respectfully, Miss Thrush, you have probably not forgotten the axe hanging eloquently over your lovely neck." Hannibal watched her eyes thinking furious thoughts. "What I'm offering, is my insight compared with your own as a way to earn your way back."

"Once we catch the 'Chesapeake Butcher'."

Officer Grant's eyes brightened and a grin replaced his pale, fat lips. "I'll have copies sent over to your office within the hour. Miss Star… Thrush." He corrected. "Are you ready for war? Because as soon as Krendler and his team show up, it's on."

"You bet." Her words were abrupt, crass, and borderline tactless.

But oh, how she had come so alive.

Hannibal felt as if instead of being the hunter, he were the prey. Clarice had set a trap especially for him and as she waited, he danced around those sharp, iron teeth.


	8. Chapter 8

Hannibal- 8

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris

Thank you to the readers that have sent reassuring words! It is helpful and encouraging!

8

"Dr. Lecter, I appreciate your indifferent civility towards Dr. Melissa Hughes' remains, but what exactly is your interest in this?" Clarice said dryly as she followed him into his sleek office. A thick sealed envelope stamped 'classified' was held tightly in her hands.

Hannibal turned the lock and opened the door to allow the lady's entry first. The scent of imitation green apples followed her. Cheap shampoo no doubt. "I wouldn't describe my reaction as indifferent; she was a recent acquaintance."

"How recent?" She asked distractedly. "My Gosh! Your office is unbelievable."

It was true, but to have it acknowledged was pleasing. "Thank you." He gave a slight bow.

The space was overly large, but had been cleverly remodeled from a Mercedes showroom to a psychiatrist's office. The open floor plan had offered a wondrous opportunity to expand his library; the elevated 360 degrees collection of books. All ranging from psychology, art, sociology, physics, anatomy, photography… he could go on and on and become lost in their words.

"Did you sketch all of those?" She observed his drawing table. "May I?"

He admired her request to review his work. Instead of most people, who uninvitingly mauled his graphite drawings.

"Where is this?" She carefully edged out a sketch.

"That is the Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo as seen from Belvedere." He told her.

"All of this detail?"

He nodded. "From memory. It's been many years since I've traveled and my memory is all I have." Hannibal enjoyed watching her eyes react to the artwork as they captured details and specifics of the city.

"These are remarkable, Doctor." She smiled at him, when suddenly, "Sonofabitch!" Clarice exclaimed while marching with purpose to the window.

He followed her line of view. A black Suburban sat across from his building. Clearly government issued.

"Doctor, would you happen to have a clearer vantage point?" The little bird's eyes were narrowed as if ready to flog. The angular cheekbones clucked another curse word as she looked through the curtains.

He thought a moment before retrieving a pair of binoculars. "I'm afraid that if we move to the roof, you could be seen. It appears that your apartment has been breached, though, not without difficulty. The door is hanging off of several broken locks."

"Sonofabitch." She whispered again with a bit less vigor.

"I'm surprised by the quick response time of the FBI. Should we expect the orders of indictment to soon follow? Perhaps you have an ally that could pass you information? I'm afraid that my office phone line is not secure, however, I have a satellite phone at my manor. Its detection would bounce off of 13 cables before locating a Mrs. Lippmann. A former neighbor of mine."

He paused to see if the name was familiar with the ex-agent. Her brow furrowed briefly, but otherwise, she nodded.

"I appreciate the offer, Doctor. Do you have a back exit?"

She accepted his offer and he thrilled at the thought of her in his home. Perhaps, he could cook for her. His red lips curved in a smile.

"Certainly. Just follow me, please."

(O)

Clarice exited Dr. Lecter's sleek gray Cadillac and stretched her legs after the 45 minute drive.

A blond, brick 3 storied mansion sat on a grassy knoll overlooking a river valley. The impeccable gravel driveway was lined with budding fruit trees and manicured hedges. Picturesque of springtime. Not a vine, blossom, or limb was out of place. Clarice stood under the impression that nothing ever dared to be out of place in the Doctor's presence. Herself included.

She spotted 2 people walking to the shed. No doubt, they were gardeners or groundskeepers.

"I have nearly 30 acres, much of which is used for orchards and gardens. On the drive, you may have noticed a clustered community of 5 Dutch Colonial homes." She nodded and Dr. Lecter continued. "The families that live there, live on my property and farm another piece of land just north of the highway. They attend to most of the landscaping here."

"It is very beautiful. May I ask what they farm?"

"Poppies, ranunculus, sweet peas, zinnias, larkspurs, snapdragons, and several other species of wildflowers. Those are the spring crops. The summer and fall crops have far more varieties and fragrances." His cultured voice answered.

She was certainly surprised, though, it illuminated Dr. Lecter's sensitivity to smells. She recalled that he had recognized her days old perfume on their first meeting.

"So Doctor, once these flowers are farmed, what next?"

He chuckled lightly. "I dabble, little bird."

She nodded at his elusive answer. He was not a person that revealed personal information easily. Though he seemed to consider everything she spoke and gave his full attention no matter the discussion. He walked smoothly to the front stair, kept his steps springy, and unlocked the door. Clarice noted the way his arms flexed beneath his fine cut jacket; he had a wiry strength. A bit like her own.

The heavy door opened to a grand, vaulted foyer.

Dr. Lecter placed his keys, billfold, and loose change into a crystal bowl.

Clarice noted the way his ear turned to the sound as if he enjoyed the metallic ring that vibrated inside the bowl.

"May I take your jacket and handbag? Or would you feel more comfortable having it next to you?"

She detected that he was testing her. The psychiatrist in him was always at work. If she kept her bag and jacket, it would show that she was uncomfortable or untrusting. If she simply passed it over, would that pigeonhole her as naïve? Stupid? Or brave and bold? Clarice wanted to be brave. Like her father.

Shrugging out of her jacket, the blade on her ankle seemed to emblazon with warmth.

No. Clarice was neither naïve nor stupid.

Of course, she sure as shit didn't feel bold or brave.

"Please, make yourself comfortable in the sunroom while I retrieve the satellite phone and some refreshments." He directed her to a side room where the sun gleaned through every pane of glass. A bleached wicker sofa looked into the eastern faced yard. In another hour, the natural light would go out of the room as it was nearly noon.

The walls held no artwork, instead, there were prism chandelier lamps casting rainbows onto every surface. She imagined watching the sunrise while drinking a cup of fine coffee. Clarice could not imagine why she would think such a thought. Nor could she reason why she enjoyed the fantasy.

(O)

It was a fine spring day on Southbeach.

The sun was hot. The golden sand was hot. And the people were hot. Just not in the sense of attractiveness.

Jack was instructed by a team of cardiologists that the next time he experienced severe chest pain, that there wasn't much they could do. Heart attacks were tricky business. And even the best doctor couldn't take away the damage left by Bella's absence.

So here he sat, baking, melting, and sweating with a warm glass of unsweetened tea underneath a faded umbrella. De-stressed and de-funked. At least until his pager buzzed against the metal pole of the umbrella. It was a code that he didn't recognize so he took his time returning to the lobby of his hotel.

The receptionist, a man with a feminine lisp, held out a rotary phone. Jack tried to ignore the sympathetic glance from the receptionist. So what! He wanted to yell. I'm dying and you know that I came here to do it!

"Crawford." He said.

"Mr. Crawford." He'd recognize Starling's voice anywhere.

"I didn't expect to hear from you." He warned carefully.

"I'm using a protected line. May I speak with you?" She asked.

He exhaled long and hard, ignoring the tiny spasm. "You've been indicted. Haven't you?"

"No sir." A beat. "Krendler is here with a team though. They've broke into my apartment."

"I saw the last headline. A drug addict was found mutilated in the river. They're saying it was the 'Chesapeake Butcher'." He waited.

"There was another, sir. A co-worker of mine." Starling explained the gruesome details under 5 minutes. The seasoned ex-agent couldn't ignore his advice. Not even if she tried. "The local Chief requested that I remain on the case as an outside investigating expert."

"The local pool was a bunch of pansies."

She paused a beat. "Yessir."

"You have the files, don't you?"

"Yessir."

"Step down. You're going to catch flak over this. You know Krendler is out for your blood." Jack felt every bit the old man he was. He thought it was strange that she called asking for a favor and he said so.

"You misunderstood, sir." She snipped politely. "I was simply calling to forewarn you."

"Bullshit. You have a double major in psychology and criminology with a backup of ethology. You've worked in a mental health center, VICAP, and as a field agent. Stick to the ethologists' track. You'll find that the animals are much more predictable and rational than Krendler."

"I disagree, sir."

A choice was coming and he wanted her to choose well. "Keep out of this case. Keep off of the books." He whispered into the phone, hoping that she took his meaning. "Chief Grant and Pilcher-Roden." The Entomologists from the Smithsonian's National Museum of Natural History were now direct advisors to the FBI. They had just enough clearance to pass along information without becoming suspects themselves. "This is goodbye, Clarice. Take care."

"Thanks for everything, sir."

He hung up the phone and returned it to the girlish receptionist. "Can I get you anything?"

"Yeah, send up a bottle of Jack." He trudged up to his room, cranked on the air conditioner, and said goodbye in his own time.


	9. Chapter 9

Hannibal- 9

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris

9

While the FBI and Chesapeake Police Department was distracted by the remains of Dr. Melissa Hughes, the latest victim of the 'Chesapeake Butcher', Paul Krendler was conducting his own sort of investigation. Illegal search and seizure? Who gives a rat's ass?! The FBI was officially beneath his notice and it was his duty (he weaseled) as Congressman to make sure that Starling stayed out of the case.

Lord knows she'd made him into a fool with the whole Buffalo Bill situation.

The current Director wanted to make sure the country dunce understood her role as ethologist. Not Special Agent of the Behavioral Sciences for the FBI. A copy of a forged indictment and civil liabilities burned hot in the passenger seat.

Polygraph examination be damned.

Testy bitch was unpredictable.

For instance, when she pulled out her recorder during the depositions! He and former Director Noonan had planned to… well it didn't matter now.

Luckily, the tip from Mason Verger had been useful. He had sent 2 Italian cronies to deal with ex Special Agent Starling before his departure from Baltimore.

Paul shrewdly excused himself to Chief Grant to check into a motel. When actually, he checked on the progress of his own investigation. The cronies were gone before he pulled up to the apartment building. A quick check of the shitbox flat indicated that there was nothing of real value. Closet and bathroom cleared. A cookie jar smashed. Sofa, doorway, and bookcase torn and busted.

A smug grin plastered to his face.

Paul liked that Verger had a criminal history and was now living the life in homogenous luxury. Albeit, his face had been forcibly chewed by a fucking electric eel {thank you Dr. Abel Gideon}, but punishment was punishment. And the cripple had money. Big fucking money.

The reason why he approved of Verger's felonious tendencies was simple. He could escape it. Money could buy you anything. A fancy house. Fine clothes. Immunities against criminal charges, no matter how sadistic the crime.

After an hour of searching the apartment, he hopped back into the government issued vehicle.

The Director of the Chesapeake Zoo, Mr. Goldstein sat in the lobby of the hotel.

Paul observed the Jewish, curly haired prick from afar. Rich, but frugal. Hair was trimmed. His clothes were expensive, yet old. The pocket watch, chipped and worn.

"Congressman." The Zoo Director said in a droll tone.

He ordered 2 waters. The cheap bastard. "Mister, uh, Goldberg." He purposely mistook the name. "When is the last time that you heard from…"

"Just a few moments ago." He interrupted, but didn't bother to correct his own name. "Clarice called the hotel asking for either you or myself. Rather remarkable of her, don't you think? She knew that one or both of us would be here. The tragedy aside, she is holding up well. Dr. Chilton is extremely distraught. They had just started seeing each other." He added as a sidebar. "Romantically. A real tragedy."

"Where is Starling?!" He growled.

"I understand the circumstances surrounding Miss Thrush…" He pronounced her new legal name. "She was an agent of the FBI, an accomplished, intelligent student of Jack Crawfords', and in the past week has revamped the laboratory." Goldstein said respectfully. "Will Graham's boasting was finely trumpeted."

Paul rubbed his eyes to push away the oncoming migraine. "Where. Is. Starling?" He asserted each word harshly.

"I don't know." Goldstein gave Paul the semblance of a smirk. "She agreed to be at work tomorrow. As with all of my employees involved, she will gain clearance after several sessions with a licensed therapist."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Paul yapped and enjoyed the way Goldstein flinched at the curse. "She needs to be debriefed!"

"Chief Grant has already done so and as he is the Chief of Police and the lead investigator on the 'Chesapeake Butcher'…"

"What time will she be at work?" Paul barked.

"9 o'clock and then, per my company's HMO network, she will report to Dr. Alan Bloom or Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Whomever she prefers." He stood. "The wellbeing of my employees means a great deal to me, Congressman Krendler. Keep that in mind when next we meet." Goldstein left without glancing back.

The congressman ordered several cocktails, slammed them down his long neck, and flirted with the pool of local waitresses until one of them caught his miserable bait.

The early morning hours of Tuesday, a flushed, distraught waitress fled from Congressman Krendler's hotel room. A tender red abrasion sat on her delicate neck, as though something or someone had used her body as an ashtray.

She would not be at work that day.

(O)

The satellite call was necessary, Clarice thought. Director Goldstein deserved to know that the murder hadn't dispelled her from her duties as ethologist.

But therapy? Really?!

"Miss Thrush, I'm sure that your credentials are top notch, however, the evidence will remain unsullied until supper is over. Please join me in the dining room." His metallic voice rasped.

"Doctor, this is a hard problem and it needs full attention." She reasoned.

"Hmm," He pretended to muse her statement. "Though, I agree with your objective opinion, I must insist."

She glanced upwards from the bleached wicker sofa. The sunlight had long since left the prismed space and had grown rather chilly. The remaining light caused Dr. Lecter's eyes to cast a maroon reflection. Clarice felt every bit of his stare and remembered that he had opened his home to her without thinking twice. A real gallant man. "Of course, Doctor. Thank you for your hospitality."

He gave a tiny bow as he led her into a magnificent room.

She gasped at the sight before her.

Faint chamber music played over a room filled with visual stimulation. A soft, crackling fire. Linen table cloth. Crystal glasses and decanters. And the most succulent platter of food she'd ever seen.

"Damn." Clarice whispered.

"Clarice, dinner appeals to smell and taste. These are the oldest senses we know and they're the closest to the center of our minds. I do hope that you enjoy this evening."

"Doctor, these sights are more engaging than the theater."

His red lips gave a smirk as he held out a chair for his guest. "Thank you. Might I ask what performance you saw that was so engaging?"

"The Lutheran reproduction of the Lambs of God." She chuckled.

"Your parents were of Protestant beliefs. I find that suiting from all I know of you." He said as he poured a half glass of Amarone.

Great, she thought. Everything she said was about to be dissected, analyzed, and dismembered. Like Dr. Melissa Hughes. Clarice gulped. "Doctor, what all do you know of me? Besides what that horrid _Tattler_ newspaper says."

"You're a daughter of the institution; bred to clock-in and clock-out on the side of righteousness and order as evidenced by your father. Not to mention the most recent conduct in the FBI. Likely an orphan." She bobbed her head and he continued. "Were you young, Clarice? Were you a young, little lamb in the Lutheran church?"

Her throat was thick, but she answered calmly. "I was."

"And were you an ambitious lamb?"

His smile revealed small, white teeth.

"Do you divide people into only 2 categories after making their acquaintance, Doctor? The organized and disorganized? The ambitious and the passive?" She did not want to spend the evening discussing her past.

"No, Clarice. I would not label you so simplistically."

(O)

"Why don't we set aside the tete-a-tete and delve into this fine meal?" She retorted with spunk.

Hannibal felt her level stare. She was unable to back away from confrontation.

He imagined that a weaker person would cower before her and found that he thoroughly enjoyed the visage.

A slice into Dr. Hughes' loin was served delicately with a Cumberland sauce of berries and sprig. It was tender and rich. Each cut was precise. Paired evenly with the tiny portion of Amuse-gueule and Amarone. And just lovely.

Would the Protestant lamb pray before her meal? Pray for Dr. Hughes?

Pray for Hannibal?

The ting and clang of flatware coupled with the snapping kindling were the only sounds.

He noted the way the air changed as Clarice breathed between every forkful. He thought that she looked enchanting as she appreciated each bite and savory sip of wine. A bit like himself. Hannibal refreshed their pallets with a mild sorbet and then brought out the crisp cannoli dessert.

He set her plate down. "Thanks."

His nose curled in displeasure.

"Do not say 'Thanks'." He said, slightly annoyed.

"I say what I mean, Doctor. Would you prefer I say something a bit fancier. Maybe, 'you're a kind and gracious host'." She raised her glass to him with a level gaze. "It would be just as equally true and provide a pleasant connotation."

He answered her with a smile.

"My words may seem minced to you, but they're still true."

Hannibal realized in that very moment, that he could never tame or predict this lamb. This little bird. He could feed and nurture her, just as he was doing, but he would never…could never… corral the lovely creature before him. Instead, he absorbed her into his mind palace. Alongside his shelves and rooms reserved only for his parents, his sister Mischa, and the fields of spring in Lithuania where they would run free.

So free and wild.

The pangs of the past, of Mischa, would haunt him forever.

"Clarice, I'd like to offer my home to you." The words were out of his mouth so quickly he started. But decided to commit to the offer. "Your meager home has been crudely intruded upon. You're welcome as long as you'd like."

The words 'forever' hung above the candlelight.

A moment passed. An eternity.

"That's awful generous." She smiled genuinely. "Thank you."

"Once we're finished here, I'll escort you to your quarters." He smirked. "You may find them lacking in sophistication and design."

"Doctor, if there is one thing that I'm certain of, it is that you would never treat a guest to anything less than elegance."

That's my girl, his mind whispered.

(O)

 _ **Dear reader, how do you find the plot thus far? Your opinions matter. Thank you for taking the time to read my story.**_


	10. Chapter 10

Hannibal- 10

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris

10

" _Dr. Melissa Hughes, 41, Veterinarian Technician for the Chesapeake Zoo, had been splayed like a marionette doll_." According to _The Tattler's_ latest headlines. Another victim of the 'Chesapeake Butcher'.

Interesting.

The newspaper delivered just this morning had been handled by a jelly-donut eating twerp. Dr. Abel Gideon threw the paper down in disgust and jolted at the specter before him. Who had seemingly appeared from the cave-like walls of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Though, his visitor was a bit zealous, he appreciated the soothing company. Visitors were few and far between. Most didn't possess an IQ higher than 110. It wasn't every day that a conversation with the man who introduced him to fine cuisine stood before him.

"You still own that awful fedora?" Abel taunted through the bars.

Dr. Lecter quirked his white fedora hat and took in the view.

The cell held 2 barriers; the first barrier, iron bars. The second barrier, stout nylon netting from floor to ceiling. The table, chair, and twin bed were each fastened to the floor with bolts. And a pass-through drawer to send food and documents to the inmate. Not to mention, a camera in the top corner. Watching Abel's every move. His daily bowel movements.

"No hockey mask today, Dr. Gideon?"

Abel chuckled and leaned his elbow on the heavy table. "They reserve that only for the most special occasions like showers, fake heart attacks, and murder confessions. They move me on a wheel-dolly, fasten my arms, legs, and shoulders back and then place the mask on." He sighed dramatically.

"You've begun confessing for sins you haven't committed." Lecter tisked.

The 'Chesapeake Butcher', of course.

The Director of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane had been most surprised at his confession.

"My, my. Right to the point this morning, Doctor." Abel looked a bit more closely at Lecter. He was bright eyed, agitated. "You didn't even bother checking with how the patient is feeling this morning or my favorite one… how does that make you feel?" Abel suddenly bellowed. "I'll tell you how that makes me FEEL!"

Lecter didn't flinch at his outburst.

A beat.

"How is dear ole Frederick? Have you been passing him my letters? They only allow contact to you or my attorney using butcher block paper and felt tipped pens." He paused as he remembered how neglectful Frederick was as a therapist. How he had a keen eye for Abel's wife. "What was I to do when Frederick neglected his duties? When he put his nasty hands on my angel! What was I to do?!" Abel slammed his hands on the table and calmed almost instantly. "She had to die. So did Frederick."

"But he is not dead, Dr. Gideon and neither is Mason."

Oh yes, Abel pretended that he forgot the little sadist monster that tortured Margot Verger and countless others. Mason bought Frederick for next to nothing. Money ran the world. And Freddy's therapy with the little wifey was just a ruse for Mason's pleasure… He snapped his head towards the double barrier and noticed Lecter's eyes were narrow maroon pinpoints. Lasers. And lethal. What was Lecter playing at? "Well, you can't say that it wasn't for a lack of trying." Abel finally answered.

A moment passed and instantly, the mood lightened.

"Dr. Gideon, I must confess, my visit with you today is double-sided."

"You have my fullest attention, Dr. Lecter." He sat with a straight back and crossed his legs.

Lecter's red lips pursed together; deep in thought. "A woman may come to visit you. Do not provoke her. Answer her questions as truthfully as possible, skating over certain… truths." He paused to make sure Abel got his fullest understanding.

"And what is this woman to me?" He flicked his wrist as though a mosquito had buzzed close.

"It isn't what she is to you, Dr. Gideon."

Ah, so the eloquent and charming Dr. Lecter has at last found a match. How interesting this day has turned out to be.

"Why ever would she visit little ole me?" He toyed.

"Because I'm going to suggest it."

(O)

Clarice's evening with Dr. Lecter had been short lived. After supper, he guided her to an extravagant room in the western wing that smelled slightly stale from disuse. But once she had taken a luxurious bath, the room had been aired and flowers added. She had hoped for a few more hours of studying the confidential files that Chief Grant had disclosed for the secret team. However, once her limbs soaked and the fancy soap caressed her skin, Clarice's eyes pleaded for rest.

In the morning, the Doctor had prepared a fine breakfast, left it under a silver platter cover, and a short note written in beautiful scrawl.

He was not present.

Somehow, during the night, Dr. Lecter had retrieved her motorcycle.

The man was full of intelligence, wiry strength, and beauty.

Like a lion. Lethal.

She drove to the zoo to meet Director Goldstein early to discuss the HMO insurance policy for distressed employees. It covered everything from debt, drugs, divorce, and death. A regular D-Day intervention, she thought darkly.

Nothing about a brutal homicide.

Nothing about a co-worker finding another co-worker split in half.

The Director was kind, not overly intelligent, but had a respect for law and order that she liked immediately. He bragged hard about ex agent Will Graham and he openly detested Congressman Paul Krendler. Whose government issued vehicle squealed into the parking lot of the zoo in front of their picnic table under the willow tree.

His aftershave was overly strong and reached her nostrils first. "Well, Mr. Goldstein. Clarice."

"You can refer to me as, Miss Thrush." She saw Mr. Goldstein's eyes widen with shock and respect. It would be the only respect shown to her today.

Krendler leered a few moments before cursing offensively at the sight of Chief Grant, who had walked out of the glass doors holding coffees for Clarice and Mr. Goldstein. She thought that Chief Grant had enjoyed taking the opportunity to publicly shun Krendler. He had possibly waited to do just that. His chest puffed out when the Congressman's teeth clenched.

Score 1 for team Chesapeake, she thought.

"Congressman, have you decided to take a tour of our lovely zoo?" Chief Grant offered a small grin.

Krendler rolled his eyes, "There is a discrepancy in agent… I mean… Miss Thrush's report. Show us to an office or something." He said rudely to the Director.

Grant began to protest until Clarice held up her hand. "It's no problem, Chief."

Mr. Goldstein showed them to a decent sized conference room reserved for board meetings, birthday celebrations, and retirement parties. A green deflated balloon was still attached to the pull cord of the ceiling fan.

Her nemesis sat at the head of the table. His hyena ears, long giraffe neck, and prickly posture irritated her. It wasn't enough that he had to ruin her career as an agent of the FBI, he wanted to ruin her attempt at a new life too. There was nothing wrong with her report and everyone, including Krendler, damn well knew it.

"How've you been?" He dribbled.

She chose not to answer.

"You just can't stay away, can you Clarice? You've been demonized and you don't even know it."

Clarice noticed a tiepin microphone attached to Krendler's button down. If it had been anyone else wearing that ancient piece of equipment, she'd just candidly acknowledge it. Then she spotted the F-Bird in his breast pocket. She smiled as seductively as she knew how and leaned forward on the table. Reel him in, Starling. She thought. Let him think he's got you.

He smirked as he watched her hand crawl forward appealingly.

Fuck you, Krendler.

Suddenly, she ripped the wire from his tiepin and F-Bird, disassembled the components, and laid it on the table in pieces. It took less than 2 minutes. He had fallen backwards over his chair in an attempt to get away. Oh yes, he was definitely afraid of her. "Krendler, the engineering department quit making these years ago. Why did you feel the need to wear a wire? Are you so threatened by my presence? I'm sure that if you're in fear for your life, we can have a third party arbitrate."

He stood against the wall trying to compose himself. Krendler's face turned purple with anger and disorientation.

"You had orders, Starling! Stay out of law enforcement." He slammed down the packet with the forged indictment. "I warned you!"

"You can't make up for your second-rate intelligence by playing dirty. You're a crook. A gofer. And you aren't fast enough, Mr. Congressman. What have I ever done to you to deserve my exile?!"

He waited a few moments before walking to the door.

"Stay out of the FBI investigation. That is my last helpful tip to you."


	11. Chapter 11

Hannibal- 11

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris

 _*Note- This chapter contains some background information on Dr. Hannibal Lecter_

11

 _Lithuania was beautiful in the spring. Hannibal took Mischa's small hand and led her from the castle steps. He was always very careful with her, even in his mind palace where they were forever young and naïve of the monstrosities of the world. His sister was beautiful as she picked Hepatica flowers; the blue petals matched her eyes perfectly._

 _There were no German soldiers. No smoke or burning pyres. His parents were alive inside of the castle walls; Count and Countess Lecter watching their children from a tall window. The bomb that killed them, destroyed their home, had never come. Never took them away._

 _Mischa giggled, demanding his attention._

 _Mischa became Clarice._

 _The purple-blue eyes changed into fierce gray-blue._

 _They were no longer children, but Hannibal recognized the dreaming state of mind. He usually pushed it away. Dreaming was not the same as escaping into his mind palace. But he would not push away Clarice. The little lamb, the ambitious bird. Dancing in a field of Mischa's flowers._

 _He glanced up to see his parents and sister smiling down upon the duo._

 _They were not dead. Mischa was not dead or eaten by the savage troops. She was there, alive, smiling, waving. And beautiful._

Hannibal lounged on the patio, letting the sun warm the chill last night's nightmare had brought about. His hands were still stained by the charcoal drawing where Mischa and Clarice stood under his Lithuanian castle home amongst the Hepatica flowers, spring lambs, and red-chested thrushes.

Her approach was soft, yet not unnoticed.

Her scent was much pleasanter today. His gift to Clarice of fine soap and shampoo had been received with humble graciousness. So unused to finery, she had stuttered her thanks with those wide, pale eyes.

Those haunting irises.

How badly he wanted to know her better. To know her secrets, history, and tale of woe. What her hobbies were and her favorite things.

"Doctor, don't move an inch." Her voice was very strained. He wanted to comfort her, but obeyed the order without fail. "Don't speak or flinch. Try not to be afraid. They sense fear."

How interesting.

He held no fear and had not since his dearest Mischa was taken from him. Through his dark lashes, he watched Clarice approach very slowly, cautiously. Closer and closer was she, that he could hear her heart hammering beneath the tan button-down shirt. Or maybe, that was his own heart beating.

Ah, a slithering beast had posed close.

A deadly thing too.

"It's a coral." She spoke in a low tone, inviting the snake's attention to her. "When the yellow stripe touches the black and red, it is deadly. Venomous." She circled around Hannibal's lounge chair and he wondered, who was the prey and who was the hunter?

She used a grocery sack and a stick, moved with catlike agility, and caught the serpent behind the head.

"Well done, Clarice. Your primitive entrapment seems to have saved my life."

Until a scream came from behind the duo.

Thomas Browning, 1 of the gardeners, had been struck by a second serpent.

Hannibal leapt from his position, used a nearby hoe, and decapitated the second coral snake with quick precision. Thomas fell over in pain.

"We will need to work fast, Clarice. Bring your slithering friend with you." Hannibal lifted Thomas with ease. The man had passed out from either shock or pain. It was better this way. Fear had a means of pumping the blood faster and with these sort of toxins, it would be a particularly nasty or fatal wound.

"Where is your car, Doctor?" She demanded as she followed him inside.

"Clear the table, please." Hannibal requested calmly.

She did not hesitate as he set Thomas down on the long table and examined the puncture marks.

"Do you have saranwrap or cheesecloth?" She asked.

It was primitive, but clever. "Third drawer down in the kitchen. Cups are to the left of the sink." Hannibal followed her to retrieve his own tools. He passed her a thick pair of rubber gloves that he normally used for barbequing his tasty dinners so that she could handle the snake safely.

Thomas' leg had already swollen and blistered.

"Doctor, we don't have enough time to make an anti-venom." She hesitated when she realized that he was going to conduct his own methods.

"Nonsense, Clarice."

He sterilized his equipment, gave Thomas a low dosage of morphine, and cleaned the wound.

Clarice milked the snake gently and used the silver service to contain the serpent. "I was not aware that you were also a surgeon."

He nodded. His bedside manner meticulous and polished. "I worked as an emergency room surgeon for several years before the practice burned me out. I became enraptured with the art of food preparation." Hannibal took the cup of venom and diluted it.

"That is quite a different form of art, Doctor." Clarice observed.

"Yes, the traumas of the emergency room unsettled me."

He sat in a comfortable dining room chair and swabbed his skin. He injected the diluted venom into his own arm before Clarice could protest.

"Don't!" She shouted too late.

"I'm afraid, Clarice, that you will need to provide care for the both of us. Just make sure our fluids are steady and our temperatures remain as mild as possible. Use the satellite phone and call Dr. Alan Bloom if anything goes awry." He gazed at her troubled expression. "Don't fret, little lamb. My immune system is higher than the average person's. My body will undergo the immune response and then you can care for Thomas…"

"But the pain."

"I don't feel pain the way the average person does."

"Everyone feels pain, Doctor." She took his hand and he thrilled at the gentleness.

"The envenomation process will take a few hours." He saw her shake her head. "I've also injected myself with something to speed up the process. Dear Thomas does not have the luxury of insurance or fine commodities. This is what I can do for him."

She nodded. "Toxicology is something I'm only a little familiar with, but I'll do my best."

"I believe you will."

(O)

The hours were slow, but interesting.

Clarice read a few cookbooks, washed her clothes while donning a borrowed silk robe, made a nutty, mushroom broth, took care of the patients, and reviewed the 'Chesapeake Butcher' case files.

8 hard cases of gory detail was scattered on every available surface. Pictures, profiles, and investigation reports detailing each unique murder.

 _The first victim was the third discovered, Angela Hall. A middle school teacher from Monroe, Louisiana. Dumped riverside. No leads._

 _The second victim, second found, Boyd McMorrow. Truck driver. Chicago, Illinois. Dumped riverside. No leads._

 _The third victim, first discovered, Rockford Foreman. Truck driver. Chicago, Illinois. Dumped riverside. No leads._

 _The fourth victim, fourth found, Milla Viro. Violinist. New York, New York. Dumped riverside. No leads._

 _The fifth victim, fifth discovered, Pierre Robear. Pastry Chef. Baltimore, Maryland. Dumped riverside. No leads._

 _The sixth victim, sixth found, Allen Blomkvist. Drifter. Baltimore, Maryland. Dumped riverside. No leads._

 _The seventh victim, seventh found, Iris Baker. Drug addict. Chesapeake, Virginia. Dumped riverside. No leads._

 _The eighth victim, eighth discovered, Dr. Melissa Hughes. Vet Technician. Chesapeake, Virginia. Dumped riverside. No leads._

Each victim found in a major river in Chesapeake (hence the nickname). No prints left. No connections tying them together besides being a victim of the 'Chesapeake Butcher'. Clarice made her own notations, wished like hell that she could obtain more information without Krendler's attention, and of course… talk to Dr. Lecter.

His aversion to giving out personal information was understandable, but he was so interesting. She felt his voice in her mind. A constant thought.

He had agreed to a mild sleeping tonic to ease the process. And just moments ago, she injected Thomas with the anti-venom.

"You're very pensive, Clarice." Dr. Lecter's metallic voice perceived.

"How do you feel, Doctor? Can I get you something? Anything?"

"Tell me, how is Thomas?"

"He is still sleeping, but his fever has dropped, and the wound isn't gangrenous."

"All good signs." He sipped an offered glass of water. "What is troubling you?" He glanced around the room. "Any progress on the 'Chesapeake Butcher'? Has he or she committed another homicide while I was indisposed?"

She shook her head and helped him to a seated position from the sofa.

Their close proximity gave her chills.

"You don't think that was peculiar? 2 coral snakes in this part of the country? A bit… deliberate." Clarice paused a beat. "Dr. Lecter, have you noticed a black suburban or had any strange visitors? Have you made enemies?" She breathed in. "I wonder, if by association with me… Yes, that must be it." She thought aloud.

Even sleep and poison laden, he followed her mindset.

"Congressman Paul Krendler, perhaps? I doubt he is that creative." His eyes flickered quickly, unblinking.

"What? Are you in pain?" She felt his forehead. It was cool.

He leaned into the touch.

"I was remembering that it was… familiar. One of my old patients had an obsession with snakes and eels. His therapy with me wasn't going anywhere, so I referred him to Dr. Chilton. Before he became a Veterinarian of course."

"Who was your patient, Dr. Lecter?"

"Dr. Abel Gideon."

(O)

It amazed Hannibal to see the victim's profiles under Clarice's fingertips. So close to the way that she was investigating; no doubt was she going to catch the killer. It was all right in front of her. Under anyone else's gaze, he would remain undetected. Unthought-of.

But it was clear that what she wanted more than anything else in the world, was to be a part of the FBI. Special Agent Clarice Starling.

And if it was within his power, he would give it to her. His Mischa. His Clarice.


	12. Chapter 12

Hannibal- 12

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris

12

"Jack Crawford did more for the FBI than Krendler, Noonan, and Senator Martin combined! Do not feed me this bullshit line. You know that Krendler is scum. Purely evil. And I've seen evil. You know I have. He has no backbone, no intuition." Will Graham's voice boomed in Director Tunberry's rectangular, organized office. "Just wait until the media gets ahold of this! If they haven't already."

"Will, I brought you here for advice. The media already know. There was a leak." Tunberry sounded as defeated as he looked. "A mix up with the fax lines from the Governor's Office."

He rubbed his face noting the scar from the sadistic 'Tooth-fairy'. "Make Krendler do this." Will pleaded. "He is the Congressman. Or Senator Martin."

"She ditched town. The daughter was extremely distraught after the lake party. They're not even in the country." The silvers in Tunberry's hair could almost be seen multiplying from all of the stress. "Rumor has it that she was the person responsible for requesting the case's review."

"Oh did she just remember that her daughter was alive because of Starling?"

Tunberry held his hands up in surrender. "Some misunderstanding happened at her lake house. Anyways, whatever it was, lit a fire under that woman's old, stony ass."

Will's intuition gave him grim theories. All ranging from taunting and harassment to full out Buffalo Bill or Toothfairy. Krendler was a fucking creep and nobody besides Starling saw it.

"The Governor called for the drug bust review. Starling's account was correct from the beginning. She made the right call and as we all fucking know," His voice became louder, "sometimes that isn't enough. Sometimes people still get killed!" Will regretted his offer to help an old buddy. His wife, Molly, warned him. He should be home, working on an old shabby boat, drinking a brew, and washing the newest pup Molly found. "Krendler and Noonan wanted to ruin Starling and they succeeded. She left town. It may have been bad luck that she was thrown back into it, but the homicide was on her doorstep."

"Chief Grant requested her personally on the Hughes case. I think he has her working on the side." Tunberry poured himself an icy glass of water and offered 1 to Will, who took the offer. Thankful that it wasn't booze. "I've already paged him about the Governor's review on the drug bust."

"And Krendler? Paged him too?"

"I might've sent a page to a deader." Tunberry shrugged as if sending a message to a non-emergency line to warn Krendler about the review wasn't a big deal.

Will stared at Tunberry's admission to screwing over Krendler, a co-worker, a former ally. "Fucking bold of you. When he finds out…"

"Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. That is what the FBI stands for and I'm fucking tired of these agents… these bullshit agents having zero semblance. Former Director Noonan may have had low standards, but I want people that I can count on. I want agents with instincts and honor. That will have each other's backs like Starling did for everyone on the task force. Even pieces of shit like Krendler! The FBI needs people like Starling. People like you, Will."

They each agreed that it should have originally been the Governor's decision, to oversee Starling's dismissal. This whole mess would have been avoided, an agent would have received proper recognition, and Krendler would be the agent reprimanded. Maybe Tunberry would turn the agency around for the better. Will wasn't sure, but it was a good start. Getting honest and solid agents. People born of the institution were rare.

Their backs were straight. Their conduct was honorable and pure, like Starling. Like her father.

"Have you tried contacting Starling?"

Tunberry shook his head. "Wherever she is, she doesn't want to be found. Chief Grant agreed to pass the message. It's a real shame. The Bureau will make arrangements since…" The Director stifled his emotion.

Will nodded. Jack Crawford was a terrible, sad loss.

(O)

Clarice's hours at the zoo were long and tiring. Dr. Melissa Hughes tasks had been split between herself and Barney. Dr. Chilton had yet to return, so the Director had taken those duties upon himself and outsourced immediate crises to a couple of small town vets.

Chilton's therapy with Dr. Alan Bloom was apparently extensive.

She had been cleared by the HMO insurance network after a week's worth of therapy sessions with Dr. Lecter. Mostly, they discussed her training at the Academy, her old partner John Brigham, her dear friend Ardelia Mapp, and any hopes for the future where she wasn't certain if being an agent was the correct path. It was difficult talking so much about herself. Too much attention. Too much pain.

Dr. Lecter subtly redirected each session towards her family. Her past.

And each time, she bluntly said, "Not today, Doctor. One day, I'll tell you. Just not today." That was usually the end of the daily discussions.

He was patient and considerate of her directness.

She sped away on her Harley to Lecter Manor, stopping only for a few moments in the Dutch Colonial neighborhood to check on Thomas Browning.

Today was his first day back at the manor, attending the vast yard and gardens. He joked about being jumpy and nervous around sticks and garden hoses. His wife welcomed Clarice with a bone-crushing hug and a Tupperware full of homemade biscotti cookies.

His recovery had been miraculous. Dr. Lecter's quick thinking saved the gardener and captivated Clarice. How had he known what to do? He used his own body, risking illness or death, just for another human being!

Clarice wondered what lengths he would go to protect someone. To protect an employee. Or her? But what stymied her thoughts, was how strongly she wanted to reciprocate. For her own reaction to that coral snake was more than alarming. It was a fear _for_ Dr. Lecter. For _his_ well-being.

That raw realization hit Clarice so suddenly, she blushed fuchsia and became a bit dizzy.

Mrs. Browning dutifully thanked her and did not miss the visitor's deep reverie.

She placed the cookies into the bike's saddlebag and zipped off.

Chief Grant's rebuilt Corvette was parked in front of Lecter Manor.

She pulled up next to the forest green and white striped car. American Muscle had always given her weak knees. Grant went up a few notches in her books. Peering into the windows, she saw a tach gauge bar and 6-speed transmission. Easy to get it up and drop the clutch. A fine way to smoke the tires for a burn-out, but if done too often, the wear-and-tear could damage the tranny.

Not able to help herself, Clarice checked the under carriage.

Yep, leaking transmission fluid onto Dr. Lecter's neat, shat gravel driveway.

"Clarice?" Dr. Lecter's metallic voice rasped curiously.

"Good evening, Doctor. Chief Grant." She shook his hand and ascertained that he had bad news. "That's a nice 1984 Vette you've got. Ease up on the burn-outs though, you're leaking fluid." She joked mildly.

The men were impressed, despite their grim expressions.

But bad news would not wait.

"Whatever you have to say, please do it." It wasn't another 'Chesapeake Butcher' victim. No, neither man would look so morose. Perhaps Congressman Krendler had pushed through the orders for criminal indictment. For civil liabilities.

Clarice grimaced.

Grant sighed. "Jack Crawford was found in his hotel room." Another grave sigh. "It was a heart attack. He didn't suffer, cardiologist said that it was quick."

She leaned heavily against the Vette and wished with all of her might that time would reverse. That she could redo their phone call from just days ago; say a few kind words. Tell him how much his intelligence impacted her. The bureau.

And if her might could turn the clock back, she rewind those spindles harder.

To see daddy.

To tell him not to short-shuck that damn pump gun. Not to be a night-watchman. Not to be shot by those pharmacy robbers. Not to die.

(O)

Her skin paled.

Like moonlight over a field of gardenias.

She realized that Chief Officer Grant's presence was to deliver bad news, but seemed genuinely shocked to hear that former Section Chief Jack Crawford of the FBI died from heart failure. In some cheap beachside town in Florida.

Perhaps she thought Grant was here to report another victim or remove Clarice from the case altogether. Certainly not. There was cleverness behind those sharp eyes. Ah, yes, Hannibal thought. Self-preservation against indictment charges. No, no. That would not do, little lamb.

Threats of arrest shouldn't give her such paleness.

Had she been chummy with Crawford?

Those eyes were devoted and intimate. Perhaps their relationship went beyond the bounds of propriety. A student/teacher romance.

Hannibal wrinkled his nose against the thought. Jack Crawford had been a respectable man during his tenure with the FBI, however, his outspokenness ostracized him from the 'important' agents. (A bit like Clarice had ostracized herself). By the end, Jack was worn like an old, leather shoe. Soles torn beyond repair and ready to be tossed in the bin.

When dear Bella passed, Jack stopped caring. The woman had been lovely, elegant.

Hannibal recalled her particular 'cancer' scent. Like an apricot that had soured in the windowsill. Overripe and moldering.

All of this was thought very quickly as Clarice braced herself against the vehicle, pulling strength inside of her wiry body. He moved towards her, ready for the weakness. But no, she held him at arm's length.

"I just need a moment, Doctor."

"A moment you will have." But I am here, his mind palace whispered the secret.

Chief Grant spoke when Clarice straightened. "The bureau agreed to make arrangements. There will be a funeral side service in Baltimore on Saturday. He was a good man." He made to hug the lamb, but decided against it. "You should know that…"

Hannibal stepped forward. "Chief Grant, perhaps, that is enough for now. She needs a bit of solitude to recover, I believe."

In that moment, Clarice's eyes shone like hot, oil street lamps. The only source of light and life on a cold, dark path. Conveying gratefulness and intensity. Maybe she would be ready to talk about her past tonight. Perhaps tomorrow. But definitely soon. He must make something very special for her. And specialties required the very best ingredients.

"Come inside, little lamb."

She nodded, took his proffered arm, and allowed him to escort her to her borrowed bedroom.

"Thank you, Doctor. I'll be alright."

"Spoken like a true Protestant." He teased.

Clarice gave him a warm peck on the cheek and blushed once she realized her casual frankness.

His prominent cheekbones burned for many hours after the simple gesture. He gathered provisions while pushing deep into his mind palace where Clarice freed her mind and heart.


	13. Chapter 13

Hannibal- 13

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris

 _*Notes- Dear readers, your words and feedback have meant so much to me. Thank you for making it to Chapter 13. The original characters and story line are one of my favorites; though I often wondered how the plot would have cantered if Hannibal and Clarice met on the outside. I hope you continue to enjoy…_

 _**Bear in mind, that Frederick's perspective on his own attack is a bit deluded and dramatic._

13

The snake idea had flopped. The slippery bastards had had zero effect on frightening Lecter and Starling.

Frederick's palms were sweating while he waited in the foyer of the Verger mansion. A place he'd never freely choose to be.

Cordell intercepted Frederick after his daily appointment with Dr. Alan Bloom; practically shoved him into the black car, and explained that Mason was extremely displeased. Nervousness always gave Frederick an irritable bowel and he glanced around the expansive mansion for a powder room. He anxiously stroked his hair only to see the lanolin stick to his skin. A pale blue handkerchief matched the pale blue paisley necktie as he wiped it away. A grease spot stained the cheap fabric.

Before Dr. Abel Gideon had viciously attacked Frederick, appearance and diet had never been an issue. Red-brown hair coifed without effort giving an illusion of height. Charmingly dimpled cheeks. Red meat, unlimited beer and spirits, and cheese…Oh, how he missed cheese.

But dear ole Abel had taken care of that.

He had drugged the floral tea used only for calming patients, swapped it with Fredericks' Earl Gray, and proceeded to perform surgery. While he was still conscious, sections of his small intestines, appendix, and gallbladder were removed. On the floor of his shared psychologist practice with Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Abel explained that it was a gift for Hannibal. A gift to society.

The pair of pure sociopaths.

So… fear, easily digestible foods, and regular therapy were a part of Frederick's daily life. For the fear would never leave. Abel might be in the basement of some criminal asylum, but Hannibal walked the streets. Free. Delivering Abel's twisted letters as if it were friendly correspondence!

Frederick had understood Abel's anger, the affair with his wife wasn't exactly meant to be private. Angelina was a surgeon's wife. Canceled dinners and outings had grown tiresome for the pretty angel. So, she began therapy at _Chilton, Gideon, & Lecter Psychiatry_. Each of their names had sparkled golden above the remodeled Mercedes showroom. The trio of psychiatrists worked on medical journals, received patients, and made landmark studies nationwide.

They were each celebrated for their genius.

Gideon originally saw the Verger family as patients, though, decided to refer them to Lecter once he realized his true calling was surgery.

Partly why he trusted Dr. Alan Bloom was because he had never been a part of their practice. And though Alan and Hannibal were friends, Frederick believed that they weren't close. Too different in their therapy methods. Alan was traditional, whereas, Hannibal used light treatments paired with hallucinogens.

Lecter still saw Margot, Frederick remembered grimly.

A lot of good that did her, he thought as she entered the foyer, eyes furious and red from crying. Every muscle was taut. Obviously a bodybuilder. Her ashy brown hair had receded further since the last time Frederick saw her. "Mason will see you now." Her voice rasped and made his skin itch as she walked forward. The twill riding breeches whistled loudly between her thick thighs. "I know you have trouble understanding Mason, so I'll go in with you."

Frederick was too afraid to open his mouth.

He didn't want to see Abel's most gruesome victim yet. Mason had been attacked about 6 months after Frederick.

 _He could still see Abel's eyes when he retrieved that eel and attached it to Mason's face. He had leered at Frederick. Taunting him. "Would you like the nose?" He passed the fleshy appendage over. Frederick had been too afraid to refuse it. The eel had almost torn it away perfectly. A surgeon could still repair the damage. "No, I better hold onto that. I have a dear friend who was so looking forward to ridding the world of this 1," He thumbed to Mason's twitching body, "but, I just couldn't resist tormenting you 1 last time. Now, the real fun begins…" He shoved a needle into his forehead. Not taking care of how it hurt, the warm fluid trickling down Frederick's legs, or the sudden thud when he keeled over._

The gravity of the room tilted and Frederick thought he may pass out. Oh, those memories would never wash away.

They quickly passed by a child's playroom. He remembered that the Verger estate was open for troubled families who needed day-care.

Tax write offs. Each of them.

Mason's room was only accessible through a large handicapped bathroom, the air still steamy from recent use and smelled like balsam and minty liniment. His breathing shallowed and he grew dizzy when Mason's chamber came into view.

(O)

The light apparatus was clicked over Mason's head.

He wanted to witness Chilton's terror. "Good morning, Frederick." The fricative _f_ and _m_ lost out of the words. "Sit." The sibilant _s_ lost too. Lips gave proper speech, but Mason enjoyed the terror. "Margot, you can go. I don't care how the Vet doesn't quite comprehend. Doesn't comprehend many things."

Her twill breeches whistled all the way out of the room.

Chilton panicked when she left. He had not yet spoken, his eyes were now fixated on Mason's missing lips. Those lips that were once full and soft.

A kiss once glistened that ruined flesh.

Mason used his 1 good eye and stared.

He might be lipless, noseless, have a tube monocle for the other eye, and enough skin grafts to create another human being. But he was not a monster from the deep ocean. Even if he looked the part.

Ah, Chilton's eyes found the thick, black plaited mane of hair. "Jesus," Chilton started at Mason's choice of topic, "was a carpenter. That's what they told me at my father's Christian Camp. I took advantage. I was rough when the campers wouldn't take the chocolate and do what I wanted."

A beat.

"Are you going to take the chocolate, Chilton?"

The beady head bobbed.

"You see, I have immunities. Hallelujah, I am free. Are you free, Chilton?"

The beady head nodded.

"Dr. Lecter caused this. You and me." Mason's breathing apparatus sounded. "He planted the idea in Gideon's head. Told him how often his wife paid you visits. You tried so hard to be… normal. I was the unlucky bystander. A nurse for the camp getting supplies... alright, thieving provisions from the zoo. Your zoo. Remember how you bragged? Your attack made you rather vain, didn't it. Many things made you vain. Do you remember our evening? You do, don't you?"

His head bobbed.

Mason grew weary of this game. "Now, are you going to take care of it? Or will Cordell take care of you?"

"I'll handle it." Chilton whispered.

"The reward remains the same, though I want them both alive." Mason turned the light apparatus off, clearly dismissing his incompetent guest. "Make sure those animals are good and pissed off."

Money could shift worlds.

(O)

Clarice really had nothing.

Her apartment had been taped off by the ghastly landlady and her foul son. Hannibal slipped a sleek knife through the plastic caution tape and stepped inside.

Krendler's incompetent henchmen had shattered everything the little lamb had.

Took her money from the yellow, chipped cookie jar.

But that wasn't why he had come here. It wasn't to retrieve the money or the shattered pieces of Clarice's new life in Chesapeake. Hannibal's presence in the pitiful apartment was to find out who was after him. After her.

Krendler and the henchmen, obviously. 1 of the trio wore Irish aftershave.

He tasted the air while walking through the apartment. The flowered sofa and bookcase were still present, though in pieces. Certainly the landlady had insurance to replace these things and not make the lady, (a part of him said, his lady), make restitution. This was an obvious break-in. But he had overheard the phone call demanding that Clarice compensate for the destruction.

No, that certainly would not do.

A couple of watercolor paintings hung above the torn sofa. He studied them. Though inexpensive, they were carefully done.

Clarice's meager ethologist salary was all she had. Paychecks once a month.

Her $1,200.00 dollars in savings gone. Well, mostly.

Hannibal still held half.

He lay on the cheap bed, face down, and breathed deep. She may have only laid her head to rest here for a few nights, but her scent was still heady here. Billowy cotton, Evyan skin cream, and sunlight.

Several moments passed in his mind palace where he woke up to this scent every morning.

Suddenly, the air changed. Like a door opening to create a soft draft or groan. The walls breathed another life force was present. Moving with agility only possessed by large felines, Hannibal crept to the door. Interested, though forming excuses in case the lamb herself appeared.

Young Ian Baker, whom Clarice had been searching so diligently for, had returned. He wore a pizza delivery cap and jacket and smelled like doughy grease. The teen opened a cupboard door, reached inside, and opened a deck of cards. It was certainly curious. But what surprised Hannibal was when the teen retrieved his Velcro wallet, removed some measly bills, and shoved them into the card box. He returned it to the hiding spot with care and left.

So Mr. Baker was living up to his name.

To his promise to the little lamb.

What characters Clarice drew forth! Hannibal thought.

His pager buzzed. He strolled across the street, through the back alley, and into his office where his secretary Brenda waited readily. His tardiness had tactfully been missed by her.

"Good morning, Doctor. My husband and I wanted to thank you again for the opera tickets. Those are the second ones you've given out this month."

"Ah Brenda, you're keen to observation."

She smiled simply. "You've had a few calls," Her routine dictated that she give a brief explanation before passing the next message. "Miss Thrush called first thing and said that she was taking the morning off to travel into Baltimore. She may not return tonight."

He frowned. "Pardon?"

"Something about a map…?"

The simple secretary misunderstood. Ardelia Mapp, Clarice's friend and former roommate.

The little bird was migrating north? How peculiar.

"Thank you. Any other messages?" He asked less cheerily.

"Margot Verger cancelled her appointment for tomorrow evening. She rescheduled for next week. Chief Grant stopped by to deliver this." She handed Hannibal a confidential envelope. The seal unbroken. "And a Paul Krendler." Brenda said abusively. "He demanded to know your address, phone number, and records. I'm afraid that he may show up during your morning appointment. I didn't give him any information." Her tone proud and loyal.

"That is quite alright, Brenda. Thank you. I have no doubts that you're correct in assuming Congressman Krendler to try to interrupt the morning."

Her eyes widened at the mention of Krendler's title.

"Please, buzz my office phone twice in quick segments. No need to use the speaker. I don't want to impede Mr. Yingling's discussion if I can help it."

"Oh Doctor." She suddenly grasped his hand and her eyes glazed a little. "You're so kind. If there is anything I can do and I don't mean a small bidding… if I can help, you would tell me. Wouldn't you?"

Dear, simple Brenda. Thought he must be in legal trouble. "I thank you for your offer."

Her husband, the contractor had access to many things, he remembered.

Barricading himself in his luxurious office, Hannibal pondered many things before his first appointment. It was troubling that Margot had canceled. Probably because of Mason's terrible antics. Then of course, Krendler. Whatever could he do to get rid of that odious man?

And Clarice.

He privately admitted that he was rather put out about not personally receiving notice from her during breakfast this morning. After all, she was HIS guest. Whom he had invited into HIS home. What if he was preparing dinner? Had other guests to introduce her to and entertain? Would she have given proper communication?

No, impertinence would not do, little lamb.

No, it certainly would not.


	14. Chapter 14

Hannibal- 14

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

14

Paul sauntered into the modern office and easily found the mindless woman that he had spoken with by phone earlier in the day. He sized her up the way he did with every piece of potential ass. No tits, middle-aged, a pretty, but pinched face, and very tall, beehive styled hair. He imagined how fucking her from behind would look something like bouncing pineapple flavored cotton-candy on a stick.

She straightened her desk and phone before turning her full attention to him. He enjoyed the effect his presence had on people; his position. His blatant entitlement.

"You're Mr. Krendler?" The woman asked in a nasally tone.

"Congressman." He corrected.

"I go by Brenda, sir." She smarted back and he felt his face flush in frustration. Perhaps he had misread her eagerness to please him.

"We spoke earlier." He said stupidly.

"We did." She responded in a condescending way.

Irritation was now boiling under his skin. "I'm here to see a Dr. Hans Lecter." Paul enjoyed mispronouncing names to draw out a person's personality. Their weaknesses. "Is that his car in the parking lot?" He pointed to the expensive, silver car.

"Dr. _Hannibal_ Lecter is currently with a patient." She corrected and stood with a clipboard. "Please fill out your health history including any mental illnesses in your family…whether maternal or paternal, the Doctor will need to be aware of every affliction."

Angry stars blotted Paul's vision as he slammed down the clipboard and thundered, "I am nott-t-t here to…to.. to…" He stuttered. A childhood habit that had taken a few years of speech therapy to overcome.

"Brenda, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting." A smallish, lean man had slunk into the reception area entirely unnoticed. His hair very black and slicked backwards. He wore a fine cut gray suit with a fragrant, yellow flower pinned to his lapel. "Ah, Congressman Krendler. Have you come to seek treatment?" He had heard the embarrassing conversation with that twat receptionist.

Paul narrowed his eyes making his hatred as obvious as possible, but calmed himself. "Therapy is only for quacks, crazies, or men who can't…" He gestured towards his crotch…"Get it up."

Lecter did not reveal his feelings towards Paul's comment; only stared.

Cold. Observant. Piercing.

"Brenda," Lecter continued staring through Paul, "might it be rude of me to ask you to venture to the post office a little earlier than usual? Perhaps you have a few errands yourself?"

The clerk stood, collected her purse, a single letter, and said, "If you need anything, page me. I'll be here quicker than a jet." She gave the Doctor a quick pat and left without addressing Paul.

"Now, Congressman. Please join me in my office. You may find it lacking in the quacks and crazies department, no doubt, but I'm sure you have other pressing business."

He followed the shorter man through the window-lined hallway and through a tall door. Paul looked at his surroundings with deft attention. He actually liked the style; modern, edgy. A bit like an architect's office. He thought that they shared similar tastes and said so while examining a smelly, old book.

The Doctor did not respond.

"Can I be frank with you, Doctor?" He turned only to find the man uncomfortably close.

"I'd find that refreshing coming from you, Congressman." Dr. Lecter said coolly.

A beat.

"We have a common acquaintance. Several in fact. Clarice Starling. Dr. Chilton. Dr. Gideon. You do know that Starling has pending indictment charges leveled against her? You're harboring a known fugitive. I'm here to serve a subpoena to _her_."

"I had not realized that the Governor vetoed the review of the case on Evelda Drumgo. Perhaps the information from _The Tattler_ is outdated or incorrect, which is plausible as their latest issue came out this morning. I should immediately contact their office." He moved to his metal desktop rolodex. "Insolence is a pet peeve of mine."

That would explain why the "undercover" reporters were stalking the hotel, Paul thought. He had spotted them quickly and requested permission from Director Tunberry to turn them away. Forcibly if necessary.

However, that bastard's only response had been via fax. 'Take no action, T.'

Paul now kept both pagers on his person at all times.

Tunberry said that he mixed up the numbers when he sent that message to the deader. Fucking idiot. Luckily the interview with _The Tattler_ had been avoided.

Chief Officer Grant lapped up the attention and openly declared that there were outside investigators drawing a close to the case. This was _HIS_ case! Not Grants' and sure as shit not Starlings!

"I'm afraid that I can't discuss Government business with you." He finally responded.

The Doctor glanced out of the window towards an apartment building. "Government business, eh? Tell me, Congressman, do you enjoy rock climbing?"

Nonplussed, he answered in the affirmative.

"Do you enjoy digging your clips into the bluff side as you claw higher and higher?" He turned his attention to Paul, his eyes small, red pinpoints. "You feel powerful once you get to the top, don't you? No matter what or who is positioned below you, it does not matter. Tell me, was it a brother, uncle, or maybe your father that used your skin as their ashtray?" Paul didn't move, but felt the old cigarette scars burn. "Did he mount you too? Just as you mount those tall peaks. Do you see their face… their hands digging into your potted, scarred flesh?"

Paul paled and felt queasy. Father Malcolm's face flashed inside his head.

A cruel, sick feeling.

"Congressman, I'm harboring no fugitives in my home. If you attempt to obstruct justice with me," He added with a sneer, "Or anyone whom I care for, you will be very sorry indeed. Now, move along. My patients will not be kept waiting by you."

Paul all but ran to his black suburban, climbed inside, and vomited all over his dash.

He drove to Mason Verger's mansion to form a solid plan against Lecter.

(O)

"Well, it's about got-damned time you showed up!" Ardelia Mapp cussed happily from the front stoop of the duplex as Clarice cut the engine of the Harley.

Clarice's former roommate radiated glee. They embraced and went inside.

"You haven't rented my old side?" She asked.

"Are you kiddin' me?! I'm still hoping that you'll come to your senses, tell Krendler to fuck off, and take the FBI by storm!" Ardelia passed her an icy brew. "You don't belong in Chesapeake."

Clarice took a long swig and shook her head. "I don't know where I belong."

Her friend pursed her lips, an impressive feat, and went to the oven. "I've got jerk chicken and a 12-pack." She added. "And all night. Whatever kind of bullshit this is," She waved her hands, "we'll figure it. Okay?"

"Got-damned right." Clarice mimed as she finished the first of many brews.

A few hours passed between the amiable companions before Clarice felt comfortable enough to share the breadth of her unexpected visit. She expelled a long breath.

"Uh oh, I smell man problems." Ardelia said a bit sloppily.

"It's not like that." Clarice told her about the first day in Chesapeake. About Ian Baker and his druggie sister. How the resemblance between her and Evelda Drumgo brought about the extension of charity. How the siblings robbed Clarice. How her job and responsibilities were demeaning and that Chilton hated her. And then the murder of poor Melissa.

The body mangled, yet recognizable on 1 half side.

Lab analysis was taken over by Krendler. Only accessible through Krendler.

And finally, she opened up about Dr. Lecter. The intelligent, handsome Doctor. With expensive tastes, keen insights, and open generosity. A man who she had only known for a few weeks, but who seemed to know her. Really know her. There were times where she nearly poured out her sorry, hopeless life story. But she'd always kept it inside.

She didn't really have a tale of woe, she told Ardelia with a shrug long ago.

Though, her heart remembered, mom and daddy were gone. It was sad, lonely, and horrible. But she had the Lutheran orphanage at Bozeman. They were kind. Gave her a well-rounded education, provided food, shelter, and clothing. Gave a home for the old mare, Hannah. Saved the horse from her uncle's plans of dog-food or glue processing. Even if Clarice hadn't saved those spring lambs.

Those screaming lambs.

Her uncle and aunt were not cruel. They were just poor, blue-collar, and redneck Appalachian. Just like her. Like her daddy.

Her stomach twisted against those memories and it was difficult believing that they were not tales of woe. Clarice had never felt comfortable enough to discuss those memories with Ardelia. Who always bore strength from her Jamaican-Gullah background and heritage.

"So, are we working on this case? Or are you gonna let that pied-piece-of-shit rule the roost all the way to Governor?" Ardelia hated Krendler fiercely.

Clarice smirked and discussed a few theories before remembering her plan to talk to Dr. Abel Gideon tomorrow. Ardelia had heard of the Doctor and gave Clarice a few interview tips; after all, she was no longer a field agent. She teased.

The next morning, they got breakfast at their favorite old hangout, and passed near a string of shops.

"Wait, I need to get something." Clarice said suddenly.

She walked into a posh Spirit and Wine boutique and saw rows and rows of shapely bottles. She was certain that no matter what she chose, Dr. Lecter would happily receive it. His manners were impeccable. But she wanted to show him that his hospitality had meant more to her than any kindness that she had received in the past year.

He preferred red wines or flavorful beers.

Ardelia glanced around curiously and gave her opinion on the bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet that Clarice selected.

Expensive and delicious. It may have cost half a month's rent, but that would not deter Clarice. She wanted to please Dr. Lecter. To be rewarded with his rare, but handsome smile.

She told her friend goodbye, promised another visit and regular phone calls, and drove to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

(O)

Abel Gideon took his putrid breakfast and wrote a letter responding to Dr. So and So from hospital Blah-Blah-Blah about the practice of whatever.

It was a very hum-drum existence.

An orderly announced a visitor.

He drank his cup of fetid water and continued the letter unperturbed. A feminine figure approached, though made no attempt of disrupting his thoughts. He signed with a flourish and faced her.

"Dr. Gideon," She began, "My name is Clarice Thrush. May I speak with you?"

Bright auburn, shoulder length hair. Fierce gray-blue eyes. A sturdy, lean body underneath a navy blue pant suit. No jewelry. Her cheek had a slight blemish. An old scar perhaps. Abel mentally prepared this new patient; he wanted to surgically remove the scarring. Perhaps a skin-graft.

He must have said his diagnosis aloud, because she shifted.

Her feet now positioned as if ready to pounce. Quite the tigress, he thought.

He must have commented aloud again, because she became intolerant.

"I must apologize, the Director here has changed my medications, and I fear my filter was removed. Everything I think, is uttered." Abel replied.

"Including confessions, Dr. Gideon? Confessions about murders that you are unable…"

"Tut, tut, tut. How do you know if I'm willing to speak with you about such things? My attorney has advised me that confession could lead to another indictment." He watched her eyes spark. Yes, this must be the one that Hannibal told him would come to visit. "Are you a visitor? A police woman? A fan?" He looked up through his lashes in an attempt of flirting. Angel used to love this flirt.

"We have a mutual acquaintance."

"You mean Chilton?" He toyed.

"You know Dr. Chilton?" She ambitiously asked.

"Oh dear, I thought you'd be intelligent." He didn't notice a flicker of angst from his interviewer so he continued. "Yes, he and I were partners before I found out that he and my Angel were… involved."

"You attacked him."

"And my wife. And Mason Verger. And the lovely little orderly nurse who wore the same perfume as my wife." He appreciated that Miss Thrush wasn't the type to take notes during an interview. "And for… all of the others."

"Why did you attack Mr. Verger?" She asked.

"It was a gift."

"To whom?"

"You know," He stood and walked closer to the nylon netting, "Your form of questioning is very… penial code. If I'm being interrogated, I need to be read my rights. If you have charges to press against me, THEN I HAVE RIGHTS!" He bellowed in aggravation. "I would like to see your official credentials."

"Doctor, I was a former agent of the FBI. I am no longer."

He squinted, "Then I'm afraid our meeting is over. Please give my regards to Dr. Lecter and of course Chilton."

"And Mr. Verger?" She asked boldly. "What should I tell him?"

"That the season of giving is upon him."

Her cheap pumps clacked down the corridor; he strained to listen for comments or hissed vulgarities from the other inmates. Hannibal requested that Abel prevent any disrespect made towards the woman because any offenses, would be answered.

Abel sat at the table and began a letter to Dr. Lecter through means of coded communication using the entertainment ads in _The Tattler_.

 _To: A. Byrd_

 _Woman seeks phantom. Directions given. Awaiting further instructions._

 _Halo._

The code was recently established by Hannibal and passed to Abel by means of his attorney. The periodicals were published twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. He grinned wickedly as he wiggled his fingers in greeting towards the camera.


	15. Chapter 15

Hannibal- 15

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

15

Frederick observed the bear habitat cautiously; noting that they were abnormally aggressive, hostile, and feral. Boar hogs were Mason's original plan of ferocity against Hannibal, but those plans were tampered when a virus all but wiped out their population.

The zoo had many amenities.

Barney came into the lab. "Good morning, Doctor."

Frederick rolled his eyes. "Barney, the grizzly's diet is to be changed. Immediately." He ordered. "I have the provisions already labeled and ready." He passed over a clip board.

The massive man read it. "This isn't enough." He flicked through the other pages.

"I'm the Veterinarian here. I don't see MD attached to your name tag." He flicked the plastic badge, annoyed. "Those bears are MY responsibility. Not yours."

"But sir! That could explain why they're so aggres…"

"Enough!" Frederick didn't need this so early.

"Yessir." Barney nodded subserviently.

"Make your rounds with Clarice. Keep her away from the bear habitat." He continued louder when he saw the massive man close to interrupting. "You know how females can be skittish, slow. You don't want her blood on your hands, do you?" He toyed with the help as often as possible. "Any questions?"

"Yessir," He repeated, "I still haven't found a replacement for those coral snakes. No trace of em' anywhere."

"Then I guess I'll have to tell the Director that your incompetence has cost him 2 expensive creatures and ruined the reptile exhibit!" He waited until the large, dark man's shoulders sagged before he relented. "Oh Barney, don't worry. The Director won't fire you. I'll talk to him about a simple garnishment or something… You know? Just until you can afford the replacements. Mmm?" He patted those massive blockish shoulders and nearly ran into Clarice Starl… uh… Thrush. Whatever she went by these days. "Clarice, you'll be working with Barney today. Be a dear and make a pot of coffee."

"Office girl has never been 1 of my strong suits." She replied annoyingly.

"Yes, but you are a girl? Right?" He replied with a leer.

(O)

Clarice let the insult slide. Chilton was a grubby worm, she thought as he walked out of the employee break room. His inch high shoes clacked as loud as a pair of pumps.

"Barney, good morning. I brought you something." She retrieved a sweet pastry and poured him some coffee from her own thermos. "Sorry about leaving you to man the fortress alone, I had some important errands yesterday; nothing serious."

"That's a fine breakfast." He smiled without revealing his square, yellow teeth. "Trying to butter me up?"

Clarice smirked at his easy way. "Saw through that, did ya?"

"Well, luckily for you, the newbie already shoveled his fair share of shit this morning." They laughed a bit before making their rounds.

Alligators. Mountain lions. Macaws and parrots. Ocean fish, rays, and 2 dolphins. Peacocks and monkeys and lizards. The zoo was a wonderful jumble of life. Clarice observed their mannerisms, much the way that Dr. Lecter observed her behavior.

Their attention. Behavior. Interactions with the staff, visitors, and other animals.

She could almost admit that it was rewarding.

Almost.

It just felt like a bit of a vacation. Relaxing, simple. Easy.

She squeezed the muscles of her hip bone just to feel the weight of where her glock had once rested.

"Miss Thrush? Miss? Clarice?" Barney must've been calling her name for a while. "Be careful around the grizzly pod. Chilton's switched up their intake and it will surely make em' growly." He passed her their clipboard. "He seemed a bit worried about having you near the containment, so watch it, okay?"

"I'm surprised the Director allows him to make such a drastic change to the feeding regimen."

"Well, the spending and donations are all managed by Goldstein, but Chilton dictates the other stuff." He unwound a hose to water the black eagle pod. "Yes'sum, money makes the world go round." He pointed out a plaque above the bird exhibit. "You see, that name there, pockets go deep."

Clarice turned and saw the plaque as if for the first time. ' _Donated by the Verger Family'_.

"Would that be Mason Verger?"

Barney nodded.

Clarice's mind rambled throughout the day's chores. Visitors tumbled in by the droves, spurred by the sunny, spring weather. Their faces smiled happily as members of the zoo gave little lectures and factoids about the animals. Clocking out, she drove to Lecter Manor with an unsettling flutter in her belly. Certainly, she was content to be in the company of a successful, intelligent man. But was that all?

Dr. Lecter's rare smiles were heartening.

She kicked the peg stand, retrieved her gift, and walked into the grand manor.

It was quiet. Dark.

He must be home, she thought wildly. "Dr. Lecter?" Her voice echoed.

She would not intrude on his personal space. Though she longed to be in his presence.

(O)

Even in the distance, the wind called his name. The haunting sound of her voice. It lured Hannibal. Almost comically. The way old cartoon character's floated on air to the smell of a cooling pie or the pan of a hearty dish. He imagined himself floating; being deliberately lured into a trap.

Ah, but what a trap it was!

She did not jump, but sensed his presence.

And as frustrating as her sudden absence had been, it was nothing in comparison to being rewarded with her bright smile. "Good evening, Clarice."

"Good evening, Doctor." Had she detected his annoyance? He thought so.

"Was your trip productive? Have you decided to fly away to the solitude of Baltimore?" Oh, he sounded bitter.

But she smirked and how lovely it was. "I'd like to insist on your graciousness a bit longer, Doctor." He livened and couldn't help it. "I hope that this is to your tastes, though, I don't have taste much myself."

Her bluntness always made him smile. He took the proffered bottle, but didn't read the label. He enjoyed the way her pupils had dilated and her posture turned welcoming, vulnerable. The offer of the gift had been intended as an apology, even if she was too proud to say the words. "Shall I light the pyres and utter a simple offering to the almighty, Clarice?"

She chuckled despite it all. "I'll bring the marshmallows if you bring the matches."

Hannibal finally glanced down at the bottle, allowing his heart to swell. No, his little lamb was not proud, she was sincere. And a bit of a romantic. For this vintage was meant for celebratory events. It was several moments before he thought he could speak without revealing too much of his mentality or emotion.

He glanced up. Her expression anxious and worried.

"This is a thoughtful, wonderful gift. I thank you." He gave a slight bow.

"It is the least I could do. You opened your home to me. Sheltered and fed me. I hope you know that I appreciate you."

"Appreciate?" He asked a bit coldly.

Her silence was equally stony. "I say what I mean, Doctor. Yes, I appreciate you. I could tell you many things. Things that…" She paused. "Well, just that I am thankful to you."

Gray-blue eyes darted around uncomfortable. Hannibal thought that she must _want_ to tell him more. "Tell me, Clarice." He licked his lips in anticipation. For her craved her confession. Her trust.

"I'm glad to be back."

"Do I detect a note of hesitance?"

A throaty chuckled escaped her graceful neck. "Am I still welcome?"

He considered her response; paced around her and drank her in. His glasses were held to his lips to feint his deep thoughts. Clarice must certainly feel that she is still welcome, but she is also aware that her sudden departure unsettled Hannibal. It was rude. Though, instead of offering an apology, she had brought a gift of truce. And he found that he rather liked that. Her brassiness enlivened him. This intriguing beauty. Only when she seemed to shrink away, did he speak. "Clarice, my home will always be open to you. No matter what the future may hold. No matter where your loyalty rests."

"What do you mean?" Her confusion was endearing.

"It's no matter. Would you care to help me prepare dinner this evening?"

She readily agreed and followed him carefully to the edge of the cliff. Its rocky ledge gently sloped to the river; a thin trail led all the way to his fresh water oyster cultivation bed. Another hobby- culturing fresh water pearls and tasty delicacies. He released her hand once they reached level grounds and passed her a metal bucket.

"I don't understand." She confessed.

Shucking his shoes and raising his pant leg, Hannibal waded into the shallows of the brackish water. In minutes, he plucked several large creatures, shucked out the meat, and found several pearls.

(O)

The river was beautiful, but on the bank smelled a bit fishy. She wrinkled her nose as she watched Dr. Lecter hike up his pant leg and wade into the shallows of a muddy sandbank. He worked the mud with his toes until he brought up a freshwater oyster. And another. And another. He expertly shucked the shells, found a pearl, and placed the gem into a bowl of salt. And repeated the process. She watched, enraptured.

His pearl farm was small, a fun hobby. She reckoned.

And it was fun.

She waded into the water, not caring how she looked, and found 4 oysters to add to their dinner table. The oyster meat was quickly chilled and ate straight with salt and vinegar.

The flavors strange, but delicious.

And the wine pairing was fantastic. Relieved that she chose a good label.

They talked deep into the night about the 'Chesapeake Butcher' until the subject tired. Hannibal took the pearls they found, cleaned and drilled each carefully, and strung them on a fine gold chain. Each gem unique in size and color.

"You will have a lovely gift for your mother." Clarice said when Dr. Lecter tightened the hardware on the necklace.

His red lips pursed together sadly. "My mother passed."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It was many years ago when we lived in Lithuania."

A beat.

"That loss never quite leaves you, does it?"

"Are we feeling sentimental this evening? Or do you wish to discuss your parents?" He taunted.

"Doctor, I find it difficult to discuss my past, as you, no doubt are aware. But I've decided that I'm willing to divulge a bit at a time…."

"Go on." He encouraged.

"If you do the same." Her head was dizzy from the wine. It made her bold.

"I think it would be quite something to know you in private life. So, what you're after is a game in quid pro quo? A trade of personal information? You tell me things and then I tell you things."

"I'm not going anywhere, Doctor." She refilled his glass, giving him the last drop.

"We will see little lamb. We will see."

 _ ***Reviews are welcome***_


	16. Chapter 16

Hannibal- 16

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

 _**Note- I'd like to express my thanks to all of the readers. I'd also like to acknowledge all fallen officers, veterans, their families, and all branches of the military. Your service and bravery is humbling and underappreciated. Thank you for your sacrifice._

16

There were many faces in the crowd present to say their final goodbyes to Special Agent Jack Crawford. Most had worked alongside the fine man. Others knew him by reputation. And a small few maliciously drove the man from the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit. Those few gathered together near the back of the crowd. Like a bed of slithering eels.

The day had begun hot and muggy, but soon the sky darkened. Clouds heavy with unfallen rain.

A sleek black coffin had been draped by the red, white, and blue blood of our nation.

Will agreed to give a brief speech and as the pastor directed him to the front of the crowd, he patted the granite stone chiseled CRAWFORD. When he faced the crowd, there were no red eyes or runny noses. Just solemn, thoughtful expressions.

"Jack dedicated his life to solving the cases that nobody else could solve." Will began. "He was a gifted officer with a keen eye to details. Jack was also my friend." He paused a beat. "And though I'll miss him, he is exactly where he needs to be. With his Bella. That was his design."

Former Director Noonan spoke. Followed by a distant relative.

The guards of honor fired a procession of volley shots.

Each shot seemed muffled by the growing clouds. It unsettled him and he rose to leave.

Will could feel the eyes on him; his scar. The whispers of the _Toothfairy_ , Francis Dolarhyde. The scratch of pen on paper. He glared over his shoulder and saw a gaggle of reporters writing everything that the pastor and the other speakers said. Vultures picking the carcass of a friend. His friend.

He left the group of mourners, noticed a woman with red hair. Genuine loss in her grayish eyes.

She gave him a nod as he passed near.

Yes, Clarice Starling. Crawford's most recent protégé. Will had been eager to give her a reference, though they had never formally met. They were kindred. Unknown siblings who shared the same father. Jack Crawford.

They may be the only 2 people present in the entire world who would truly miss him.

With the mourners in the distance, Will felt he was finally able to breathe. Molly couldn't be away from work and there was nothing he wanted more than to be with her. Away from the false grievers. The rain pattered lightly; its scent reminded him of Molly's tanned skin after a shower or a swim in the sea.

"A few words Mr. Graham." A tall, lanky blonde approached him. Her eyes impatient. "Do you plan to come back to the FBI now that Mr. Crawford has passed? Do you feel a need to solve this case for him? The _Chesapeake Butcher_?"

"Show a little respect." He spat.

"Your speech was moving." She continued unmoved. "Your work with the _Toothfairy_ was inspired and insightful. The FBI could use that expertise again."

"Francis Dolarhyde was a sick man who needed medical treatment." Will countered sharply. "If the media could get their facts straight…"

"And what are the facts? My sources say that you and Jack worked together closely."

Anger caused him to lash forward, though he envisioned himself stuck in knee-high mud. No matter how he moved and struggled to run and tear at that insipid reporter, he was unable to move. The viselike grip was not on his legs or feet. It came from behind; pinning his elbows together like a cloth dolly.

"Take a knee, Will. Center yourself in this moment."

That metallic voice.

He knew it.

"Dr. Lecter." He whispered. His own voice just as raw.

The reporter scampered away. She recognized how close she was to danger. Like a distinct smell or static in the air before a storm.

"Will," Dr. Lecter knelt, but kept his grip steady. "I've always found death comforting. The thought that my life could be over at any moment frees me. Beauty, art, horror, comforts, and everything of this world. All that it has to offer is fully appreciated. Colors are brighter. Tastes keener." Thunder rumbled overhead, hastening the setting.

"Death is not comforting." Will turned to face his former psychiatrist.

"You stink of fear, Will. Fear and cheap aftershave. But you've never been a coward. You fear death and still you're here. Fear is the price of your instrument. I can help you bear it, if you allow me."

"It isn't like Dolarhyde."

"Ah, your first murder. It's still giving you nightmares. It isn't as though you enjoyed it as God enjoys his kills, his murders. You know I still collect newspaper clippings. God most recently dropped a church roof on a congregation of 37 of his followers. Interesting, don't you agree?"

"Doctor…" Will was growing impatient.

"The ability to completely empathize is weighing on you. You feel guilty; your anchor is missing. No doubt it is due to the absence of your beloved family. Molly, Josh, and the canine petting zoo. Jack Crawford forced your abilities for every case you worked. It took its toll. Post-traumatic stress in its own rights is a disease."

"I don't blame Jack for…"

"No, my dear boy." Dr. Lecter interrupted. "It isn't blame that I'm speaking of. It is your guilt. Your empathy doesn't care if you're retired or no longer an officer. It continuously runs in the background like a light switch on a circuit board. Emotions are gifts from our animal ancestors."

"It could explain my inclination for keeping canine company." Will joked drily.

"There are times where I share that inclination."

"And yet, you still keep such diverse company, Dr. Lecter."

"Ah, you refer to my recent acquaintance. Clarice Thrush." Dr. Lecter's eyes roamed to her location. Her back was straight and proper. "I understand that you gave the recommendation to Director Goldstein at the Chesapeake Zoo."

Will nodded.

"I'm curious as to why you gave such a recommendation." His red eyes glowed. "Miss Thrush informed me that you've never met in person."

"I understand her. That resentment, isolation. She was betrayed by the 1 place that was supposed to resemble safety. It betrayed her multiple times. First, with her father's death and lack of support from the small police unit. Then, after the Buffalo Bill media frenzy." Will narrowed his eyes at the reporter's van. "And of course, most recently, with the drug bust and loss of John Brigham."

Dr. Lecter nodded. "Yes. It betrayed you as well. Though, if I may boldly state, Miss Thrush dealt with the betrayal with a bit more finesse."

Will allowed himself a small chuckle. "Of course, being a diesel mechanic in a boat yard has its ups and downs. Tunberry wants Clarice and me back at the FBI. He is working with the Governor to have her dismissal turned over."

"Are you going to return?" He asked pensively.

"No." Will answered firmly.

"Not even for Jack?"

"No."

"In the end, it was too difficult to force yourself to look at the case. Because there would be another and then another and then another." Dr. Lecter said. "You once told me that."

"Doctor, you're coming awfully close to asking me a question."

"Director Tunberry has made you an offer that you refused. Why?"

"Molly." Will said softly.

"You feel that she isn't strong enough to provide support for such brutality? That you'll experience episodes or seizures again? Tell me, Will. Do you still sleepwalk or experience hallucinations?"

"No. And I plan to keep it that way."

"Our work together…"

Will interrupted. "Is in the past, Doctor."

"I see."

"Your patterns are beginning to show." He decided that the game of cat and mouse was growing at an alarming rate. Will respected Dr. Lecter. Admired his tenacity and abilities. It was years before he realized that their friendship had dual purpose.

While legitimately captivated by Will's empathy and the cases that they worked on together, Dr. Lecter gained unprecedented access to the FBI for himself and to tailor to his killings accordingly. "We both know the real identity of the 'Chesapeake Butcher'. Is Clarice going to become the next victim of yours? She doesn't fit your profile."

"You have every right to know what is happening. Our friendship was tested and I'd like to believe that even through Francis Dolarhyde, I can still call you my friend."

"I wanted to hate you."

"And yet, you don't."

"No, I don't." Will breathed out. "I know that I have a multitude of personality disorders and that you helped me understand them. I appreciate, respect, and worry for you. But I don't hate you. Much to my own chagrin."

"That is the second time this week I have heard how appreciated I am." Dr. Lecter said with a touch of annoyance.

"Maybe you should not just listen, but 'hear' it."

Will knew that he meant Clarice. "What are your intentions? And before you go off on a tangent, I want you to know that I will set aside our friendship on this instance. Something I didn't do before. I couldn't bear to lose you; someone who understands me."

The sky continued to darken as a bugle horn played for Jack Crawford.

"Miss Thrush will have the same opportunity that you had all of those years ago, Will. The opportunity to capture a killer."

(O)

Paul Krendler watched Starling from a distance.

His suspicions that Lecter was harboring her were confirmed when they arrived together in his silver Cadillac. He waited a few moments before attaching a miniature tracking transmitter underneath the fender. That device cost Mason Verger 2 grand. It's signal could pin point his location within a 10 foot range.

Noonan nodded as Paul walked through the cemetery and joined him.

"You notice that Graham is here? Over by the pecan trees." Noonan observed.

Paul glanced over and saw the profile of a weak man cowered away as though kicked. "How could you NOT notice that Frankenstein?" He guffawed. "I'm surprised that the 'Toothfairy' couldn't kill that scrawny bastard."

"Actually, Frankenstein was the Doctor. Not the monster." Lecter's voice cut sharply. "And the monster attacked not on command, but upon provocation. His attacks were cruel and messy. But effective on keeping out the rude."

"Dr. Lecter? I'm Mr. Noonan, formally with the FBI. Jack Crawford spoke often of you."

His sleek black hair and piercing red eyes held Paul as he addressed the other man. "Yes, no doubt he did. I've only met you once. I believe it was after the attack on Frederick Chilton and Mason Verger. You subpoenaed medical records on Dr. Abel Gideon."

"Yes, I believe your response was… unique."

"You mean, my lack of response." He finally flicked those creepy red eyes away from Paul. "I do not keep physical notes on my patients for fear of divulging personal information. Trust is difficult to earn and easy to gamble away."

"Then how do you keep track of all of the loonies?" Paul interjected.

"As I am not under Court order, I fail to see the purpose in explaining something so complex to you, Congressman Krendler." He nodded to Noonan. "My sympathies regarding Jack. You knew him for many years. He too, spoke of you often."

As he Doctor walked away, Paul muttered. "Creepy bastard."

"He isn't so bad. Helped solve a lot of cases and saved innocent people from a horrible fate." Noonan answered.

Paul thought, 'yeah, if only you knew what he was capable of.' Mason Verger described how Lecter was imbedded in the community as a respected Psychiatrist and Botanist. He also explained how Lecter was a true sociopath and killer. But that the monetary reward would be removed if that knowledge were made public. Verger was both sadistic and a genius. His involvement could not be known and Lecter's own murder would be a private affair.

And so, Paul watched from afar as Lecter introduced Starling to Graham. They chatted companionably for a few moments.

What a trio, he thought.

Revenge would be sweet.


	17. Chapter 17

Hannibal- 17

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

17

"The family nearly lost their child last week. Animal control is calling for an investigation and possible containment or euthanization."

"Cordell," Mason began, "Have you noticed that Chilton becomes braver when the chances of discovery are at hand?"

He enjoyed the way Chilton's scar ticked nervously.

"It's their diet that is setting them off. Making them agitated. They've already cracked their pod and yesterday, the bear charged the glass. It didn't break, but it could have! That little boy fell over, busted his head, and now sits in a hospital for a head trauma. If he dies…"

The breathing apparatus gargled. "It doesn't matter if that boy dies! The family has other children and all of the hospital bills have been paid off. That 1 bear will of course have to be removed from the zoo; Cordell has already made the arrangements. He will infiltrate Animal Control, bring the animal here for holding, and then when we kidnap Lecter… we'll return the bear to do the Lord's work."

Margot inched forward. "Mason, there are too many things that can go wrong…"

"Don't patronize me, bitch!" He spat through the missing lips. She flinched as if physically struck. "Or you won't get what you and your freak girlfriend want!"

"Don't talk about Judy like that." Margot's eyes reddened and her nose ran.

Somewhere in her Amazonian body was the sister that he had exploited over and over. Their youth was spent under their parent's watchful eye, except in the horse barn and bible camp. Mason would use the leather tack and pin her down. He took pleasure from her tears, he always had. Because even though she was now a deformed mutation, her pain was as real as rain. It was all about control. And he would always control her. He craved the tears as he craved a stiff drink.

"Get Cordell to retrieve a martini."

Her riding breeches whistled all the way out.

A phone line rang and Mason used his intricately designed breathing apparatus to answer. "Yes?" He drawled slowly.

"It's been placed. We should have an approximate location within a day. Apparently, Starling and Lecter are spending the night here in Baltimore. That corn-pone country pussy likes old geezers. Makes sense. She and Crawford probably fucked like dogs. A rumor I started." Krendler droned proudly.

"Well, while you've been chasing your tail, Director Tunberry has plans to pull that bitch back into the FBI. Have your cronies watch them from a distance. You need to be a bit more dutiful in the office this week. And answer your damned phone!" Many of the syllables pronounced missed their true sound in his lipless words.

He hung up, frustrated.

"The tracking device is in place. Now, what I want from you is total compliance. You remember how to take the chocolate? Right Frederick?"

(O)

Margot sped towards Baltimore ignoring every traffic law along the highway. She called Dr. Lecter's office only to discover that he was away for a funeral and would not return until the following day. By then, it would be too late. She imagined the steering column as Mason's neck.

Mason was going to expedite his plans. His twisted, sick, murderous plans.

The grip tightened.

For years, she had let her fate be _his_ tool. _His_ plaything. Mason controlled her and would forever, because she _allowed_ him to control her. Was it really so wrong to want a baby? Her father's last will and testament had been extremely specific. All financial and estate winnings fall unto hereditarily in sequential order. Meaning, that Mason was in control.

This was of course before his attack rendered him unable to spawn an heir.

And before Margot discovered that her body was unable to produce a child. She bitterly remembered that her brother was the reason for that.

The only option left for producing an heir was through a child. A child born of the Verger bloodline. And she desperately wanted a child. A pure, innocent creature that could be sculpted out of love and tenderness. Everything that Judy bore. Those kind brown eyes helped calm and slowly the grip on the steering column lessened.

It was Dr. Lecter that pointed out Mason's body still held the ability to donate.

If properly stimulated.

Margot, who for years, took the physical abuse from her sadistic brother, and who now subserviently served him, asked for this tiny favor. She bled her heart to him. Begged him. Reasoned with him. Introduced Judy. Offered to donate her flesh to his mangled body.

Today was the final straw.

She must have known that Mason would never give her the only thing in the world that could make her happy. On the surface, he allowed her to _believe_ that he would consent. But Margot finally understood that it had all been a ruse to keep her under his control. To feed information about Dr. Lecter, to do Mason's bidding, and to make her run around like everyone else under Mason's employ. What a fool she had been!

Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane came into view.

She bolted from her car and dashed inside.

In seconds, clearance was granted.

Money had immense power.

(O)

Harsh breathing echoed down the hall accompanied by frantic, heavy footsteps.

Abel Gideon put down the Friday edition of _The Tattler_ and saw a figure from the past.

The newspaper lay open to the entertainment ads section.

 _To: Halo_

 _They are coming. Be ready._

 _A. Bird_

"Well, well. Margot Verger."

The director had given her Abel's lunch tray to pass through the sliding door. All the less interaction with the inmate, Abel thought.

"Dr. Gideon." Her massive shoulders trembled and caused the apple to roll cagily on the felt-fabric tray. "I need your help."

"It has been many years since you were a patient of mine, dear girl, and I'm afraid that I'm a bit… lacking." He said with swagger. "Your current Doctor's methods not working? Or does your brother find it bothersome without you present to wipe his bottom?"

"My brother intends to have you and Dr. Lecter killed; probably within the next day or 2. Your lunchtime apple has been injected with a powerful sedative." The Amazonian woman placed the felt-fabric tray into the sliding door and pushed it through with a loud clang. "I'm to stay here until you eat everything." Her faced flushed.

"Why would you tell me unless you think I'm stupid enough to not believe you?"

"Mason has paid off the director of this facility to transport you to another facility. While en-route, it will appear as though you've escaped. But a few of Mason's bitches will be on standby to retrieve you. While the nation is searching for a mass murderer, you will be taken, mutilated, and killed." She nervously stepped forward. Abel inched towards her, intrigued. "I need your help." She repeated desperately.

"And why would I help the sister of a man who wants me dead?"

"You're a surgeon. You could help Judy and me. We want a child." Margot rambled quickly. "Eat something or the director will come down into the basement." She reminded him not to touch the apple just yet. "But the child has to be of the Verger bloodline, or we'll lose everything. I'll lose everything I've built! I keep the company afloat. Me! Not him!" She spat.

Abel waited a beat.

"I switched the apple with another patient's. Underneath that tray, you'll find a small scalpel. Please tell me, that you'll help me have a child!" Her hand pressed against his cell. It was smaller than the rest of her enormous body; out of place.

A few more minutes passed as they quickly discussed a plan.

She left after having a pretended icy argument with Abel, a dramatic show for the cameras overhead. He heard the director meet her at the end of the hallway and a very loud hiss telling the director to 'fry that bastard'. Margot had never been a dramatic child, which must've been an acquired trait cultured from Mason. The perfect teacher of the dramatics.

The director walked in front of Abel's cell. "You have another visitor, but I think your visitor privileges should be revoked for the day."

Abel took a deliberate bite of the fruit.

Juice dribbled down his chin.

"I'll behave." He laid on the charm as thick as possible, so sickeningly sweet. Like icing.

(O)

Clarice passed a very tall woman who seemed eerily pleased about something. They nodded in passing down the damp stone hallway of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

She hung her belongings, passed through a metal detector, and walked down the hall.

"Dr. Gideon, may I speak with you today?" She began.

He tossed up an apple core and caught it with a flourish. He remained silent as he tossed it twice more. Then placed the gnawed fruit on a felt-fabric tray, covered it with a newspaper, and shoved them through the sliding door.

She retrieved them and briefly noted that he read the same small town newspaper that Dr. Lecter read. An old habit perhaps? Or maybe he missed his former colleague? Dr. Lecter mentioned that he and Dr. Gideon held a practice with Dr. Chilton.

"That depends Miss Thrush. Are you here with Miss Verger? Are you the form of transport that is to take place? Come to take me away to another facility. Lock me away for good!" He said harshly.

"Margot Verger?" She asked curiously. The name rolled around in her mind like lead.

"Don't toy with me. Remember, I have horns under this halo." He accentuated with meaning.

"I do not keep company with the Vergers." She said distastefully.

That name marked everything that was wrong in her life this week. The zoo donations, lawsuits, and that poor child whose life teetered on the edge.

"Your tricks will not work here, dearie. Run along."

She noticed that Dr. Gideon was acting as though drugged and had to remember that he _was_ in a hospital. "Thank you for your time, Doctor."

Clarice turned away. Her failure of advancing in the serial murder case soaked her through. She was no more than a few steps before the inmate began hollering. "Agent Starling! Agent Starling!" He cried with a new note in his voice. She scampered back as quickly as her feet would carry her. "Ask me your question. Quickly!"

"Are you the 'Chesapeake Butcher'?"

"That's not your question."

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. A bird told me." He returned to his cot and became still.

She left the hospital feeling depleted, running purely off of her own lean will. Dr. Gideon reminded her so much of Dr. Lecter. His little half-truths made her feel like an alien in her own body. But this was business. Her business to find the butcher. Clarice tallied the facts quickly in her mind. Each fact held a common denominator and it wasn't a fact that she could run with. At least, not of her own volition.

Dr. Frederick Chilton. Dr. Abel Gideon. Mason Verger. Dr. Alan Bloom. Jack Crawford. Will Graham. Paul Krendler. Senator Martin. Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

All of it seemed connected.

She returned to the hotel suite that she shared with Dr. Lecter.

2 bedrooms, each with a bathroom merged into a grand living area.

Clarice dumped her fine handbag and saw the latest edition of _The Tattler_. Curious, she read it and then threw it in the bin only to find another copy already there. She picked it up and noted that it was Monday's edition. In minutes, she flicked through it. A square had been already been cut out. She glanced around and smiled broadly. She had finally found Ian Baker.

His pimply teenage face was cut from the entertainment ads for Employee of the Month at _Jones' Pizzeria_.

'Good for him.' She thought proudly.

And then she saw it.

 _To: A. Byrd._

 _Woman seeks phantom. Directions given. Awaiting further instructions._

 _Halo._

Clarice retrieved the latest edition from the bin and balked.

 _To: Halo_

 _They are coming._

 _A. Byrd._

Dr. Gideon's last words to her today. And he distinctly said 'halo'. The 2 were talking in code to each other!

Many names swirled together in Clarice's mind; Jame Gumb; Katherine Martin; Francis Dolarhyde; Mrs. Lippman; Evelda Drumgo; Angela Hall; Boyd McMorrow; Rockford Foreman; Milla Viro; Pierre Robear; Allen Blomkvist; Iris Baker; Dr. Melissa Hughes. The last 2 victims, Clarice had had direct contact with! But so too, had Dr. Lecter, however briefly.

Clarice pressed her hands hard into her temples recalling every conversation between her and Dr. Lecter since they met. He had always seemed to appear when she was at her weakest. Most vulnerable. Hell! He offered his home to her!

And Mrs. Lippman. Dr. Lecter admitted that his satellite phone would zap off of 13 cables before leading back to Mrs. Lippman. What did he say? That he had been a neighbor of hers?

The owner of Jame Gumb's home. Before Clarice popped him full of lead; Buffalo Bill.

Oh God, she thought.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter knew Mrs. Lippman and undoubtedly knew Buffalo Bill!

Clarice's knees gave way and she plopped heavily in the chair.

Could Dr. Lecter be connected?


	18. Chapter 18

Hannibal- 18

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

18

 _*Note- This chapter contains several direct quotes from the books_

Hannibal entered the hotel suite very late. The hotel staff were few and the concierge's eyes drooped heavily as he waited the front desk.

Clarice had fallen asleep at an odd angle on the couch. He watched her for a few moments until her form was sketched into his mind palace and very carefully, he lifted her. The newspaper clipping of Ian Baker drifted to the floor like a feather. No doubt, the little bird was relieved at the boy's change of circumstances. However, it also caused the visible tension above her sleeping brow.

Yes, the little bird was connecting the dots now. He imagined her hopping greedily from branch to branch. Chief Officer Rick Grant had paged Hannibal earlier. The Governor had rescinded Clarice's exile.

The little lamb had been vindicated.

She did not murmur or stir when he placed her under the covers.

He removed her cheap shoes and belt carefully.

Just a hint of her stomach flesh peeked and he had to catch his breath. How purely wonderful she was.

Hannibal returned to his room where dreams mixed with fantasies.

 _At once Hannibal was thrown into a scene from the pages of his past. Somewhere, his mind knew that he was dreaming and yet, the picturesque scene continued. The Palazzo of the Capponi with beautiful and timeless ornamentation. He placed his hand over his chest, yes, the beat was steady even in the dreaming state of mind. But he felt impatient. Searching._

 _His fine shoes knocked against a stone._

 _A stone in the Palazzo?_

 _Hannibal looked down and saw the single reminder of mortality, a child sized skull graven into the floor._

 _Yes, the memory palace was infiltrating into his subconscious. An uncomfortable thing that is unavoidable in even the most advanced of minds._

 _His dreaming feet walked swiftly away from the child sized skull and into another room. It was a great hall built 400 years ago. An airy, great expanse furnished with shocking and striking portraits and objects. The museum was tastefully done, he thought. The frescoed walls rough under touch. A glass display case came into view. It held several small teeth._

 _Hannibal paced away, agitated. He could visit 1,000 rooms and travel miles of corridors letting his mind soak up the knowledge and finery. But he could not outrun matters of the heart and mind. No matter the distance. No matter how unnaturally swift he strode. There were just some places within himself that he could never be safely armed against. Where rules of logic and reason didn't apply._

 _And just then, his dreaming feet stumbled into a castle's oubliette._

 _He fell for miles and miles. Like Alice down the rabbit hole._

 _Only there were no soft cushioning's or whimsical caterpillars to sing him songs._

 _His Lithuanian home came into view; a fine stone castle with thick windows and even thicker carpets. Large and small bronze statues and cherubs placed in the great expanse. His bare feet trudged through the snow. He felt every bit of the cold that crunched underway. This spark of memory fire drew him inside and the scent of rotten gardenias and jasmine assaulted him. Ah, Clarice's scent. But it was off. Very wrong._

 _The heart of the castle appeared half charred and half polished to a fine shine. Yes, his mind palace was definitely having fun toying around the walls of his brain._

 _His former patient. Jame Gumb, Buffalo Bill held Mischa._

 _The child sized skull. The small, baby teeth. His little sister, still small, perfect, and whole. Those large purplish blue eyes wide. Jame Gumb pivoted._

 _Not really embracing her. No! It was Clarice._

 _In the moment of Hannibal's confusion, Jame Gumb laughed. The single note carried rudely throughout the room and the smell of burnt wood descended. "Think she'll taste as good as Mischa?" He stroked the curve of her neck._

 _The bronzed statues of his former home spoke. "Save her. Save her." They called._

" _I don't need saving." Clarice's voice was not melodic as it should be._

" _Save her. Save her." The statues chanted._

 _Jame Gumb opened his mouth and released a dozen moths. They fluttered nosily and released the odor of rotten flesh. "Come save your sister." Clarice was Mischa again. "Come save your little lamb." Mischa became Clarice._

" _Hannibal." Clarice said. "I'm here."_

 _Her melodic tone returned. It was_ _his_ _Clarice and Jame Gumb was killing her. He pinched off her airway with yellowed, nasty fingers._

 _Through the thick windows of Hannibal's former home, he could see war deserters tracking closer and closer. They were hunting. If he allowed the vision to continue, he would see them feast upon the flesh of his sweet sister, Mischa. But Mischa was not here. It was Clarice they came for. They craved sustenance._

" _I crave sustenance." Jame Gumb taunted as he reminded Hannibal of his presence._

 _An oyster shucking knife lay on a nearby ornate table._

 _Hannibal reached it unnaturally quick and struck Jame Gumb the way a cobra strikes its prey. 1, 2, 3, 4 times. The bastard bled, but would not release Clarice. 5, 6, 7 times more he slit the putrid skin. "Let her go!" He demanded._

" _Hannibal!" He yelled. "Hannibal!"_

The walls of his mind crumbled and the bedroom of the hotel suite came into view.

The window curtains were open and allowed distant street lights inside. Hannibal stood with a blade covered in blood. In the darkness, the blood looked very black as it dripped steadily to the floor.

"Hannibal." A melodic voice whispered.

In a wink, he flicked on a light.

Clarice sat on the floor holding her arms in a pool of thick, coppery blood. Her gray-blue eyes wide and dilated. He took some pride in her fear. No. It was not that he was proud to have coaxed her fear of him, only that she did have some self-preservation after all of her law enforcement duties. Those "too close" encounters with the scum of the earth. The Jame Gumb's and Evelda Drumgos' of the world. Bullets, knives, and gunpowder.

What had he done?

Slaughtered his lamb?

(O)

Something woke Clarice.

It wasn't a neck ache. Though it hurt. It wasn't that she was in her own suite. Though, she was. It was screaming. A part of her memory was triggered. And it made her sick with fear.

It was dark, early. She was a child as she wandered to the barn just as she was doing now, wandering towards the screaming instead of away from it.

But she had to silence them. Those screaming lambs. That screaming man.

Dr. Lecter's room was cast in moonlight. He twisted slowly at first and then he thrashed against the bedcovers with violent fervor. A familiar knife was on the bedside table. She knew that blade now better than she had weeks ago. When it killed all of those people. Clarice walked quietly, hoping to retrieve the blade before he hurt himself or others. But she didn't anticipate a creak in the floorboards. Nor did she anticipate Dr. Lecter lurching forward.

"Let her go!" He bellowed.

It was mostly shock that held her still. "Dr. Lecter! Wake up!" Clarice cried. "Dr. Lecter!" The blade struck twice more. "Hannibal!" Swipe. "Hannibal!" Swipe. Swipe.

Her knees buckled for the second time that evening. "Hannibal."

There was something about imminent danger that Clarice has always been drawn to. But not pain. And it was pain now that overwhelmed. He looked every bit of the killer he was. She knew it only hours ago and still, she came running. Towards the danger. Towards him.

"What were you doing?!" His metallic voice said harshly.

"You were having a nightmare." The walls tilted a bit.

The room brightened and caused Dr. Lecter's eyes to appear as maroon pinpoints. Those eyes held Clarice whole. He came a measured distance closer. "Do you feel weak?"

She did, but she would not tell him so.

A beat. And he disappeared.

Time must have been lost because her eyes opened and she was leaning heavily against his bed. The yellow checkered print made her dizzy and stupid. Or maybe that was the blood loss.

Dr. Lecter knelt on the floor next to her, syringe in hand. Medicine bag open. "I would not have had that happen to you. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me."

A list of murders rolled through her mind. The names and faces of people that he had killed. And though his words were not shocking, Clarice did believe him. "Discourtesy Doctor? Discourtesy is ugly, but not violence. Not murder?"

"I have told you once, my dear, the world is much more interesting with you in it." His lean, muscular arms stuck a skinny needle into her neck. The maroon eyes sparked like distant headlights on a dark highway.

She had the impression that her vulnerability excited him.

His sleek black head bobbed up and down as those strong hands wove a needle and thread. The cuts were not deep, she noted aloud.

"Are you in pain?" He tugged a suture.

"You were screaming."

"Yes."

"It reminded me…" Her tongue rolled around heavily in her head.

"Of what?"

"Of Hannah."

"Your mother?" He pressed.

"My horse. Before I went to the orphanage," Clarice began, "I stayed with my mother's cousin and his wife. They had a ranch. I left."

"Ran away?" Hannibal began closing another wound. "Did the cousin try to fuck you?"

"Yes, I ran away and no, there was no fucking. They were a good family. Poor, but good. Ranchers with a lot of acres. Horses. Lambs. Pigs. There was a livery stable and glue factory nearby."

"So you discovered they were raising these animals for slaughter?"

She nodded. "I woke up early, heard a noise." Sentences getting harder and harder to string together.

"What was the noise, Clarice?"

"Screaming."

They took a beat together. Staring hard into each other's eyes.

"So tonight you awoke to the sound of screaming and thought you'd ride into battle with Hannah?" He began sewing again. "Are the lambs screaming louder and louder? Shall I fend them off with a crook cane and a collie?"

"I think you could fend off a lot more with a lot less, Doctor." She said drily.

"We are well past formalities by now I would think, Clarice. What with me nearly fileting you. Not to mention other such things."

"Do you mean like how you're a killer?" The morphine loosened her tongue.

His red lips pursed together. It was not in concentration, though he did hold needle and thread. "Yes. I commit murder as it suits me."

"Why?"

"It began when I was much younger. I witnessed a terrible thing and it changed me."

"Mischa?" She asked. "I've seen your drawings of her."

"Mischa was my sister and she was killed by war deserters. They…"

Realization briefly cleared Clarice's foggy mind. "The deserters… Oh my God. That is why you..." She didn't finish. "I'm sorry."

"I made my mark in Lithuania. Count Hannibal Lecter was banished long ago for unspeakable acts of revenge. I murdered, coveted, and ate the flesh of my sister's killers."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I see her loveliness in you with every passing day. You want something far greater and more pure than anything I've ever known. It is in my power to give it to you."

She stared blankly at the man she loved.

The man who had just admitted to being a cannibal.

"By confession, the baring of my flesh. The Governor has turned over your exile. You may rejoin the battalion once again; be a part of the F. B. I." He pronounced with a refined lilt. He injected another round of morphine, placed her comfortably under his covers, and took her hand until she fell asleep.

(O)

Clarice woke with a drugged hangover. Medicine and room temperature water sat on the bedside table. Next to a beautifully scripted letter addressed to her.

 _Dear Clarice,_

 _Take the tablets. They are for your pounding headache. No poison. I promise you._

 _Over the course of these past few weeks, I have followed your progress and acquaintance with enthusiasm. In our discussion, it was apparent to me that your father, the dead night watchman, contributes highly in your value system. Your success at ending Jame Gumb's killing spree pleased you because you believed that it would please your father._

 _Your career progress afterwards was slow, like Jack Crawfords'. Did you have relations with him? I sometimes find myself riled at the thought. He too, was exiled from the FBI. Did you feel crushing disgrace? Shamed? The menial tasks at the zoo were likely as demeaning as your mother's laundry services._

 _Take a moment to digest that._

 _Your qualities will be tallied here. So read on._

 _You are a southern mountain woman. Strong, blunt, and imperfectly perfect. Now stand in front of the mirror. Do this exercise with me, won't you?_

Clarice stood.

 _See in the reflection. First take note of your worst memory._

Sheriff taking daddy's badge from mother.

 _Now, take note of your best memory._

Daddy and mother holding hands in prayer at the kitchen table. Their clasp was just a minute or 2 longer after the prayers were said. Their hungry child gobbling tuna casserole.

 _Your father was a night watchman. Your mother was a laundry maiden._

 _Was your big career for them or for you? Hmm?_

 _Did your supervisors exhibit strong values? The same strong values that your parents held? Look into your honest family and look at your supervisors? Now look into the mirror? Tell me now… have you failed your family? Did you fail them before? Did you fail them when you came to my rescue earlier? Knowing that I am… what I am._

 _You are strong. A warrior._

 _This is my confession to you, if you chose it to be turned over into evidence. I am yours Special Agent Clarice Starling._

 _-H_

 _Or as the Tattler refers to me as "The Chesapeake Butcher'_

 _P.S. If for some other more hopeful reason, you do NOT chose to turn me over, I will still be yours, Clarice Thrush. Under either identity, I find your iron will unyielding. And if for some reason you choose another path, the Chesapeake Police Chief may find my location easily. I have a few more lashes to dole out with the help of a former colleague. You may know him as 'Halo'._


	19. Chapter 19

Hannibal- 19

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

19

The florescent lights in the basement of the FBI flickered and hummed noisily. The air was cool, still. Clutter and debris from the last tenant was still piled high. A lone spider dropped onto the dusty shelves. It made Will sad. Even the paint chipped walls echoed their grief.

A knock. Will turned and gave Clarice Starling a small smile.

"So this is what it looks like when it's clean?" Her eyes circled the room.

"You call this clean?" Will asked incredulously. Dust motes drifted in the air and lay thick on cardboard boxes. "I was just getting his personal belongings."

She remained silent.

Will took a moment to really look her over. Deep red hair, not copper. Grayish-blue eyes. High cheekbones. A beauty mark? Or was it from an old scar? Sturdy frame and sharp shoulders. He thought that maybe she was a hung-over as her pupils seemed to retract away from the poor lighting. "Everything okay?"

"It's hard and ugly to know somebody. Really know somebody."

Her distant tone was familiar. That bitter grief. Empathy had the same taste, bitter and metallic. Will thought about the last 5 years of his life. How that bitter taste had suddenly sweetened when he left the Bureau behind. He then wondered if Clarice was readying herself for a similar path. Was losing Jack Crawford the final straw that broke the camel's back?

"Maybe you should talk to someone about it. Helped me." Will steadied a box.

"The Governor rescinded my dismissal. Director Tunberry is going to give me Jack's job." Clarice sighed.

He nodded. "I left several of the boxes here so that you could rummage through them. See his case notes and books. Even his gun; it's locked in the hull if you want it."

"Why aren't you staying?"

A ghost smirk appeared on his face. She was observant. "I had enough. Even before Dolarhyde attacked me. The cases were getting harder and sinking me deeper into depression. Like I was drowning in a murky river filled with psychopaths, murderers, and sickos. Where was the line being drawn? There were several months when I couldn't tell. A few therapists worked with me. But in the end, I had to get out."

"Dr. Lecter was your therapist." She stated in a way that told Will volumes.

Clarice knew.

She hadn't just come to the basement of the FBI Behavioral Science Unit to reminisce about an old coworker. She came to confront him, Will Graham. To see how much he knew.

She continued. "I read something in the _Tattler_."

He scoffed. "Fine piece of literature."

"In the entertainment ads. Lecter knew Gideon long ago. He knew Mason Verger too. And Dolarhyde and Jame Gumb." Her teeth ground together. "Some people could say that Lecter is the reason you and I are so fucked here." Her heads spread open to indicate the FBI. "As soon as I go upstairs and meet with Tunberry, I have an obligation to uphold the law. To turn over…" Her voice gave a soft crack.

"You love him?"

She nodded.

The humming florescent lights listened to their steady breaths. "He left those bread crumbs for you to find. Tricks only for you. Tailor-made for you. Right down to the people he… had designs on. Before you met him, Lecter was already forming plans to know you. Even if he didn't know it himself. He was searching for you."

"He is searching, but not for me." She leaned against the door jamb.

"What will you do?"

"If Dr. Lecter is caught, he'll get the needle."

"That isn't the worse fate that he could have. You know Verger? Well, getting the needle would be like falling into a deep sleep compared with what that psycho has in store for him. Money goes deep." Will rummaged in the cardboard box, took a photo frame, and set it down. "This was all I was looking for."

(O)

The picture was during Will's early years. There were no crinkles around his brown eyes. He was clean shaven. Quite a bit younger, no scars, and attractive, Clarice noted. Jack too. A handsome, wiry cut man. Not broad or thick, yet equally strong in stature. Confident and probably in the peak of his career. Before the politics in the building wore him down like a weather beaten rock.

"So you're not even considering coming back?" Clarice asked.

"Hell no. I'm not political enough and neither are you. You think that just because Tunberry is the director that he'll make all of the 'Paul Krendlers' of the world go away? Sure, you can lead them all through hell. They'll all love you for it. Until they don't. The minute something goes sideways, like it did with Drumgo, you will go through this whole shit storm again." Will's frustration was not directed at Clarice.

"I agree. But don't you think it's wrong? What he does?" She leaned closer and whispered. "He kills people and eats them."

"Yes. What he does goes against nature. But what do all of his victims have in common? Think Clarice! What does he do that sets him apart from all of the other criminals and murderers?"

"Anger, social resentment." She answered.

"No." Will growled.

"It isn't any different!" She said stubbornly. It went against the grain for her to seek reason for these type of offenses.

"He rejects them."

Baffled, Clarice rolled her eyes as Will continued.

"Lecter rejects their nature; removes them from his own environment."

"He knew them? All of them?"

Will nodded. "It started a long time ago, I never asked and he never told. But every person he… discarded, was an abscess in his life. Some disgusting, disgraceful tumor that had to be cut out of the earth. Search your list and Lecter will be behind every kill. The teacher? She humiliated one of his employee's children. Wet their pants and she made the child clean it with his own coat.

The truck drivers ran over a homeless man's dog. Lecter didn't know the homeless man. He knew about it because he owns a CB radio in his basement and overheard their bragging.

The violinist. My only guess is that the sound was an atrocity. Probably the same with the chef.

And then there was the drug addict." He finished.

"Iris Baker." Clarice's voice rasped.

"She did something to you. Something I can't see." Will's eyes were opaque. He saw things beyond the line of vision that most people saw. His instincts were razor sharp. Eerily so.

"She and her brother robbed me, but the boy brought back some of the money and now he has a job. Employee of the month."

"Lecter notices everything. Never forget that." He moved in the doorway. They were close. Clarice caught a faint trace of aftershave and was reminded how keenly Lecter's senses were attuned. "Never forget what he is and what he'll do to get you what he _thinks_ you want."

"More people are going to die. Aren't they?"

Will nodded. "That is his design."

"I need to stop him. He can't do this for me!"

In this moment, she committed to decision. To action. She couldn't let Dr. Hannibal Lecter turn himself in as the 'Chesapeake Butcher'. She formed her matrices from her parents; those frameworks of pattern and ethics were now challenged. She had committed to this action and would follow it through, but it didn't mean that Clarice couldn't take a few moments of reflection."

Will gave her some space before saying, "Just go back to the hotel and talk to him."

"He isn't there."

"What?" Will looked alarmed.

"He said that Officer Grant would know where to find him."

Will punched a few numbers on Jack's old phone, stirring more dust. "Director, I need you to contact Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane." A beat. "Just do it!"

A moment of confusion and then realization blossomed. "Dr. Gideon?"

(O)

Tunberry hung up the phone as Will Graham and Clarice Starling walked quickly into the open door.

He glanced down and saw the gun and badges for his newest agent sitting on his desk. Clarice Starling and Clarice Thrush and a black Glock. Not being sure which she preferred now, he thought that she should have the option to choose.

"Well?" Will asked impatiently.

He rubbed his neck. "Dr. Abel Gideon was in-transit to a new facility in Philadelphia. The transport extradition team did not arrive. Officers are heading there now to talk with the Director of the hospital and I need a team searching the highways for the transport vehicle. Clarice, I'd like you to lead this."

Her eyes revealed nothing.

Not excitement or reluctance.

"Send men to Mason Verger's mansion. Tell them to search the mansion, the barn, the property. Everywhere." Will stressed.

It wasn't an order that Will demanded be followed. It was fact. The man had instincts and Tunberry hoped that he had changed his mind and decided to become a team player. It was a risk sending Clarice back into the public's eye after such an awful dismissal and the Director could use every bit of support available. 2 million people would be watching her every move _. His_ every move. Her smart mouth and the rebuff against Krendler flat-lined her career once. He couldn't allow it again.

"You think Verger paid off the Director of the hospital?" Tunberry asked though Will was already nodding.

"Send as many teams as you can and forensics. You won't find Gideon." Will's eyes were distant. He tricks and talents for empathy were unwarranted, but 100% accurate. "But you'll find bodies."

Clarice still hadn't uttered a word. When finally she said, "Sir, I appreciate your offer." She deliberately took his hand. Her own palm was cool, but dry. A firm grasp. "I'd also like to acknowledge how you fought for the Governor to overturn my dismissal. I resent the hell out of what happened to John Brigham. He was a fine man and a good Agent. It makes me sick. That raid on Evelda Drumgo went wrong for many reasons. I made my choices and I'd do it all the same if it came down to it." She breathed. "But I've had my fill of being pushed and shoved and bullied by the politics of the FBI. You will make a fine Director, sir. I have no doubts about that."

Tunberry gaped at the rejection of his offer. "You are a fine Agent, I'm sorry not to have you on my team." He meant every word. "Will?"

"You already have my answer."

And with that, Will Graham and Clarice Starling-Thrush walked out of his life.

(O)

The scalpel felt warm along the folds of Abel's jumper seam.

He had certainly played the part of doped mental patient. The hospital director had given him several hard slaps to make sure it wasn't all a ploy before snapping on the detestable hockey mask. Soon, he was trucked into an extradition vehicle.

And then the real excitement began.

About an hour into the trip, the vehicle was rudely sideswiped. Because he was securely locked, Abel had barely budged. A series of loud complaints and much struggling. And then silence. 2 Italian type thugs roughly shoved him into another vehicle. They smelled like cheap food and blood; framing him for the murder of those men.

Ah, yes. The prisoner transport escapee protocol.

Clever. Abel thought.

Now, it was all a matter of quietly observing the blacked out van from its filthy floorboards.

Shag carpet? Really?

It probably held 30 years' worth of cigarette ashes and semen.

Another hour or so passed before the van came to a stop.

A strong smell of fur, greenery, and manure upset the air.

He allowed himself a peek. Ah, the Chesapeake Zoo. So, it was to be torture first and then murder. Not exactly original, Abel thought smugly. He wandered if Margot would be present. He hoped so. This could be very therapeutic for her.


	20. Chapter 20

Hannibal- 20

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

20

A 4 person squad in 2 trooper vehicles arrived at the Verger mansion in the early evening hours.

Mason was maneuvering around the great halls of his inherited home on his wheeled cart daring these peons to keep up. The simpering incompetence of the troopers was overwhelming, though easily discouraged amidst the host's brilliance, Mason smugly thought.

Cordell entered the room and with a significant nod to the master, Mason addressed the room. "Well Officers, please help yourself to the premises. I have nothing to hide." The sibilant 'S' and plosive 'P' were lost in Mason's speech. A face without lips was rather frustrating despite the brilliance they spoke.

The children had gone home for the day leaving an empty playroom and discarded toys strewn about. Officers searched here first. To them, it seemed too cheerful in the presence of such a scarred, ruined man. This wing of the mansion was shrouded with large beams and portraits of dead relatives of the Verger lineage. A proud, strong lineage too. With wealth and powerful connections.

Margot's riding boots echoed the hall.

"Margot, I was just showing the men around. Perhaps you'll find 1 of them interesting enough for a date?" The mechanical apparatus whirled loudly to keep up with his gargled chuckle.

He missed her disgusted expression.

She leaned in and whispered. "They have Gideon."

"And Lecter?" He asked.

"I haven't heard from Krendler yet. You should have let ME handle him." Margot hummed with anger which Mason appreciated. Her initial reluctance to retaliate against Lecter had forced him to make her take his chocolate. After all, disobedience must have consequences. "Krendler doesn't know the first thing about Lecter." She picked up 2 walnuts from the bowl on an end table and squeezed them together in her fist until they cracked under the pressure. "I should have gone."

The 2 officers near the front door were not paying attention, clearly sent by Krendler instead of Chief Grant. "Paul is exactly where he is supposed to be; there's been an amendment to the original plot." Pulling the strings behind the curtain. Mason continued. "He is positioned where I'm must vulnerable." Governmental knowledge. He added mentally. "Besides, Lecter will be delivered cleanly into my hands tonight. Remember, we have Gideon. Now Krendler will have Starling. We all know that Lecter can't resist an injured animal."

"Starling?" Margot's masculine brows pushed together.

"Gideon was the bait, but Starling will be the insurance." The 'B' and 'S' lost in Mason's words.

"Didn't know Lecter was into the snatch." She commented.

"Yes, quite the disappointing venture." Mason's teen-like crush on Gideon and Lecter had been his ultimate blindness. An unexpected venture of his youth. He thought that by seducing and then haranguing Frederick would acquiesce that hunger. Frederick was newly bisexual; not comfortable committing in either direction. And therefore, not a true battle for Mason to fight. However, when Gideon's wife took an interest in the veterinarian, Mason encouraged the relationship. Coaxed it. Seeing his avenue to Gideon. And what an avenue it turned out to be. "Keep an eye on these dancing monkeys, I'm going to check in with Krendler's progress."

Cordell had the line ready and passed it over.

"Starling didn't take Noonan's bait. She walked away."

"Interesting."

"No, not interesting. How the fuck am I supposed to reroute her now?" Krendler stupidly squealed.

"Christ, do I have to walk you through everything? She has no ties besides Lecter and Chief Fat-Ass. It'll be easier now to just grab the bitch. The Italians are nearby and will make the grab for you. You've done your part. Now just stay in that office, play the good boy, and the remainder five million dollars will just magically appear in your account. As agreed."

"Your plan is shit." Krendler grunted.

The breathing machine swirled loudly with Mason's anger. "Gideon and Lecter were in it all together. To get Lecter, you have to get Starling. If the cops find Gideon first, he'll get the lethal injection. Which means that Lecter and Starling will fall in line. I want to feel their last breath on my face!"

Mason hung up. "Once Krendler makes that incriminating bank deposit, let me know. Because then," His ruined eyes glanced up at Cordell, "He belongs to me."

(O)

Dr. Hannibal Lecter's letter burned hot in Clarice's pocket.

Just thinking about him made her strong and weak. Hopeful and weary. He made her heart throb. The cuts he gave her itched and pulled. As if they were trying to burst open from the confusion going round and round in her own mind.

She exited the FBI building and thought about what Hannibal would have said, ' _Turmoil is the reflexes of the brain trying to cope from the havoc created by the heart_."

Of a few things she was certain:

 _Hannibal was the Chesapeake Butcher_

 _He wrote his confession and gave it to her to give her career a real shot_

 _He loved her_

 _And she loved him_

During their discussions, he had shown her that being a part of the institution had not turned out as it should have. There was no justice. Bad people were both criminals _and_ leaders. Good people were victims and casualties of their own ignorance. And Clarice was sick of being the victim of her own life. Watching worse people rise to dictate her path.

Her name had been cleared. Vindicated.

But she would not take their shit anymore. Her destiny would be by her own hand.

Clarice's cheap pumps clacked loudly down the steps of the FBI building. She held her head high against the damp spring wind. Somewhere in her gut, she felt her father smiling. He would have taken her hands into his rough ones and spun her into a fatherly embrace.

She hadn't felt this proud since the day she graduated from the academy. Not even after receiving acknowledgement for the capture/slaying of the murderous Buffalo Bill.

It felt like a new beginning.

One where Clarice could convince Hannibal to forget giving her that confession. He would stop trying to rid the world of hateful, nasty people. They'd vacation together on sandy beaches. She could introduce Ardelia to him.

Ardelia!

Clarice smiled. Just thinking about her friend brought the familiar sound of a sizzling skillet filled with jerk chicken and peppers. A tasty brew in a frosted glass. Cursing in her 'hill-folk' mountain tongue.

Her Jamaican friend had stayed true all through the Buffalo Bill fiasco. Listened during to the frustrations and celebrations. Warned her against poor career choices and even poorer romantic choices. Their laughter echoed in the walls of the simple duplex. Ardelia's friendship made Clarice feel at home no matter where she was.

She crossed the sidewalk to the underground parking with the face of her friend on her mind.

Just 5 seconds passed before Clarice realized that the stinging sensation at her neck was bad news.

Very bad news.

(O)

"Dr. Lecter? Can you hear me?"

"Yes." He answered the pager immediately using the phone from a neighbor who was currently on vacation. The summer home furniture had been draped in flowered sheets that reminded him of Clarice's lumpy sofa.

"It's going down. Tonight! They have Gideon. They have him."

He thought furiously fast. "Margot, dear, calm down. Take Judy and go out of town, remove as much money as possible and leave. You don't want to stay for this."

"I can't. I can't." She sobbed.

"Tell me why."

"Gideon isn't drugged. He is going to help us have a baby! They're taking him to the zoo to throw into the bear pod." Margot rambled. "I…I… jjjust."

It was the breakthrough that each therapist at some point had witnessed with one of their patients. As inopportune as this moment was, it was necessary and he told her so once she took a breath. "You and Judith will have this child and keep the Verger lineage. I have no doubts that Gideon will help you succeed in becoming a mother. Margot, I'm on my way now it will be just another hour now..."

"How? You're in Baltimore with that woman."

"Tell me exactly how it is that you know that?" He demanded.

"Krendler. Oh God! Oh God!" She screeched. "They're going to get her! That was the other part of the plan. Dr. Lecter, they're going to take Clarice Starling!"

He pursed his lips together, willing a calm to wrestle his mind. To take away the panic and excitement that threatened to boil over. He hadn't felt this outraged since when Margot first came to him. A bright young lady. Innocence taken by her sadistic, incestuous sibling. When the slaughters had resumed and victims were found in the Chesapeake. The overwhelming desire to purge the world of insolence. Eat the rude. The free-range rude.

"Stick with Gideon. When this is over, he'll help you and Judy conceive the Verger lineage."

The lean muscles of his body flexed in unison.

Blood and veins burned like the pyres over Mount Olympus.

He moved unnaturally fast to his van as he made his way to the Chesapeake Zoo. To save his friend. To kill. To protect his lamb.

OoOoOoO

 ** _Warning! The up-coming chapters will contain violence, graphic, and disturbing mental imagery. Continue the story bearing that in mind as I don't intend to cause any animosity to the readers. Thank you for reading my story, it is very humbling. Reviews are welcome._**


	21. Chapter 21

Hannibal- 21

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

21

Paul decided that leaving the city was in his best interest. Not only financially, but professionally as well. Noonan flagged Paul's credentials the moment that Starling rejected his offer to return as an FBI Agent. Too suspicious for Starling, then maybe the FBI team had a mole. The plugged up bastard!

It was only a matter of time before his assets would be frozen.

He needed that money from the gimp now!

The Italians nabbed Starling just as Krendler was called into Noonan's office. The meeting would cover any ties or doubts of the kidnapping being linked to himself. Nobody was looking for Starling and that was exactly what counted. She had no one. Not even that darkie friend of hers. Abigale, Audrina, or Athena or some other islander name, wanted nothing to do with the cornpone white-ass pussy named Clarice Starling.

He played the rest of the day in the office until clocking out for the weekend. His position had not YET been revoked or suspended, though he felt a storm boiling against him. All of the glares and scours coming from the former consultant, Will Graham. That scarred face gave a glower that could peel paint.

Paul thought of the Tooth Fairy and the moments where Will Graham should have been killed. He was not known for his sharp shooting, nor really for his field work.

It was the insights into the criminal mind; the ability to empathize.

Paul originally thought it was total bullshit. Being proven wrong had been a hard lump to swallow. Though, when Graham extricated himself from the FBI it was better all around. Now the fucked-up face assaulted the Congressman at every turn in the office. Every phone call made, they locked eyes through the glass windows.

Will Graham knew.

He just couldn't prove that Paul was involved… yet.

He needed to get out of town. And quick. Using his personal cellular, he called home. His wife was easily placated about remaining in the city for work and he drove to the Verger mansion once dusk hit the city skyline. The rear view mirror did not reflect any tails.

He would get his millions if he had to pry it out of the limp dick's gnarled hands.

"What the blue fuck are you doing here, Krendler?" Mason and Margot shouted. "You've done your part!"

"I'm here to make sure you don't flake out!" He shouted at the duo.

"You've got to be the biggest, fucking moron alive. Were you followed?" Margot demanded.

"Of course not!" Paul shouted back. "I'm here to collect."

"You're not getting a cent until Hannibal Lecter is delivered into my hands." Mason replied. "Margot, get the van ready. I guess you should come too, Krendler. Hope you have a strong stomach."

Margot and Cordell loaded the crippled wealthy successor into a blacked out van.

Paul started when he saw Clarice Starling's unconscious body.

"You brought her HERE?!" His voice boomed in the limited space.

"Thought you'd want an unobstructed chance at getting in her pants."

"Mason, I don't…" Margot's warning was cut off by the gimp.

"You can have a chance at her muff too, Margot." Mason sneered and caused his sibling to withdraw into herself and pay attention to the road. He said to Paul. "Go on. I know you want to. Though, you should know. God sees all."

Paul's throat felt tight, but not as tight as his breeches. His dick hardened just at the thought of Starling's tight country pussy. She was in her best form too. Slim. Hard bodied. Cute, but not beautiful. Fresh. Like a barely legal virgin. He knew that she hadn't been with many men. Maybe not ever. His fantasy rode high.

He glanced around the van. Nobody paid him any attention.

Leaning over the unconscious red head, he pursed his lips in a thin line. His hands moved of their own volition and tweaked a nipple. Emblazoned by her lack of brassiere, he groped her breast harder. His dick pressed against his zipper uncomfortably. He grabbed both breasts until he was sure to leave bruises, but he didn't care. Clarice Starling would know his hands before she died. She would know his dick too, he thought. After all the years of her resistance, she would take him. And take him hard and rough.

Starling had been a thorn in his side for far too long.

Paul licked his lips.

He imagined licking hers.

What would she taste like, he wondered? Well, he'd find out one way or another.

(O)

Margot watched the rear view as closely as possible.

Krendler was having his fun toying with an unconscious woman. One that rumor had it, had rejected him multiple times.

She took a corner and cranked the steering wheel just enough to watch the sick bastard bounce his head off of the roof of the van.

"Damn it, Margot. We are not horses." Cordell replied from the passenger seat.

"Sorry, thought I saw something in the road."

Krendler returned to his seat, but watched Starling as if she were a steak grilling over hot coals.

Dr. Lecter would not be pleased if the woman arrived into his arms in less than perfect condition. Margot doubted that he would find her to blame, but she didn't want to take a risk. The evening held enough risks as it was.

She pulled into the cargo docking area at the Chesapeake Zoo.

The Italian lackeys opened the van doors and smirked at the sight. One of them tossed Starling over his shoulders as if she were a sack of grain. Margot jumped out of the driver's seat and strode over to him. "Easy with her you Italian buffalo." The two men exchanged a few unintelligible words. "Maybe you'll understand this." She grabbed a thick fallen branch, took an end into each hand, and bowed the wood until it broke. "Capiche, you ignorant fucks?"

After the coast was clear, she dipped into an office, and dialed Dr. Lecter's emergency line.

He answered. "Margot, have you arrived at the zoo?"

"Yes, but there is something you should know. Mason and Krendler kidnapped Clarice. She is here."

The connection gave a funny noise. Possibly the impending thunderstorm. No, it was Dr. Lecter. He was hissing into the line.

He spoke light and quick. "Her condition?"

"Unconscious by sleep-darts." She hesitated.

"Margot? What else?" He probed.

"Krendler got handsy. I did what I could to deter it."

"Lead a lamb like her to the slaughter and the consequences will be dire." He threatened. "Mr. Krendler means to have her, I take it?"

"He said as much." Margot replied.

"Keep Krendler alive. This is important, Margot. I've got Frederick Chilton incapacitated for Abel. If there is a way to clue Abel in, please do so."

"Doctor?"

"Yes, Margot?"

"I want to be the one who ddd..does it. Mmm..Mason, I mean." She stuttered.

"You will be. My plans have changed and I'll be delivering Abel's gift directly to him. You'll have to make do with the medical accommodations that the zoo has available. Abel will know what to do."

"I'm nervous." She admitted.

"You and Judy will make excellent mothers. Of that, I am sure." He disconnected the line.

(O)

The concrete feeding containment cell had been closed off for several days. A stale air smell seeped into everything; the walls and concrete tiled floor. The animals were too aggressive to share the space together and they were each suffering from ravenous hunger. The bear's growling and cantankerous behavior could be heard just though the metal door leading into the animal's open wooded area.

Of course, that didn't matter right now. Gideon thought.

The doors opened and a repugnant Italian man dropped a lovely red headed package to the floor with a heavy thump.

What an interesting turn, he thought as he played his role as the intoxicated patient.

The Italian man stopped to check the woman's bindings and shifted her so that she lay on her back. The brute smirked when her shirt gave an unobstructed view of her bare pillowed breasts. They had slight red markings. Likely from the sudden toss to the floor. The man moved to grope the unconscious woman, when Gideon gave a disgruntled snort.

It was successful in drawing away the Italian's attention.

"Eh! You still doped?" The man said in a heavy accent. He smelled like greasy pork sausage and engine oil.

Gideon cracked his mouth to drool a bit and rolled his eyes convincingly. It earned him a rough smack, but the man left without further attentions to the unconscious woman.

The clanking of the door leading into the inner maintenance halls caused the woman to stir. She blinked hard a few times, but realized that she was bound.

"Miss Starling, good evening." The static intercom crackled. Gideon recognized the voice of Mason Verger. "I'm afraid that this evening's entertainment will be entirely at your expense. No, no. Don't bother speaking, this is a viewing area only and I won't hear you. Your roommate will keep you entertained, I'm sure. Once he comes around."

"What a drama queen." Gideon muttered. He knew very well that Clarice Starling heard him; he mentally applauded her for not reacting to his voice.

"How many men are there?" She asked him while looking up into the viewing window.

"4 and a half. The 2 Italians, Cordell, Krendler, and Mason. He is the 'half', if you didn't catch that."

"Paul Krendler. Gotdammit." She whispered angrily. "Thought I smelled his nasty aftershave." Clarice rolled her neck and noticed the open buttons of her blouse. She shrugged off the immodesty. "My mouth feels like dried cotton; is there any water in here?"

"Not unless you press that metallic button near the door. Of course once you do, in 2 seconds, several bears with ravage us apart and water will be the last thing on your mind before it is ripped out of your skull."

She wrinkled her nose. "What is all of this over?"

"Mason's Revenge?" It was the obvious question. "I supposed it all began with Margot. She was abused by her sadist brother; the half-a-man that spoke earlier. I was her therapist and then Hannibal took over once I focused on my surgical career. Hannibal's therapy is a bit… progressive. However, it was doing wonders for Margot's personality disorders and depression. I'm not sure exactly when Hannibal declared his unspoken plot against Mason, but I supported it." He thought for a bit. "Of course, you know all about my involvement, my wife and Chilton. I'm surprised that little git hasn't made an appearance. Probably afraid of Hannibal."

"Hannibal? He's here?!" She squeaked.

"Not if everything went accordingly." Of course Hannibal was currently indisposed. What with his own little present for Abel. Chilton should now be giftwrapped and wetting himself. If everything had gone according to Hannibal's plans. If. If. If. If.

She moved as if to draw closer.

"Tut, tut, dear. You mustn't attract the attentions of those who wish us dead." His mouth hardly moved, but he gave a great snort and jerk as though under sedation. "Your presence may have thrown a wrench in these plans of ours."

"What plans?" The former agent demanded.

"Why… don't you know?"

"Dr. Gideon, my patience is too thin for this shit right now. Tell me now, please."

"For. My. Escape." He popped the 'P' with a flourish.

"This was all planned? This was all…"

"Yes. The details were a bit harried and of course with Krendler kidnapping you, Lecter will be outraged at Mason's audacity."

He chanced a look at her lovely face and was pleased with her surprised expression.

"Mason thought he chose wisely with Krendler; the man with the connections and a penchant for muddying his nose. Governmental payoffs for the man with grabby hands. The grabby hands that have touched your sacred flesh, even if the touch was rebuffed. Oh, yes. I know about you from the great man himself. Hannibal will perform his greatest concerto tonight. Are you ready, Agent Starling? Are you ready to see the red light behind the eyes of the man you love? Those eyes that yearn for you. They also yearn for red-blooded vengeance. Can you see him in those steely eyes of yours and know that he covets?"

"Covets what?" Her voice cracked with dehydration.

"Covets you."

She was silent for a long moment.

"When things go down, what is my part?" She asked bravely.

"To exploit Mason's weaknesses. And he has many."

"Aren't you his weakness?" She asked. The agent in her had never known to stop being an agent. Not with her scandal, exploitation, or ejection from the FBI.

Abel drew into himself as he tried to mentally play out the evening and how it would shape the rest of his life.

(O)


	22. Chapter 22

Hannibal- 22

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

Hannibal secured Frederick Chilton's limp body in the testing laboratory of the Chesapeake Zoo where Dr. Melissa Hughes had been slaughtered. The serum running through the imp's veins would wear off within the hour to allow the full effect of Abel's torturous procedures. Chilton's impending doom had been a long time coming. Planned and thought out during Abel's many dull hours in the stone basement of that terrible place.

Through the course of Abel's incarceration, communication was limited to the vulgar lines in _The Tattler_. The offensive news column with a penchant for half-truths.

Yes, the personal advertisements.

Where man seeks woman. Woman seeks man. Solicitation is offered. And the occasional commentary on preparing the flesh of an enemy.

Hannibal preferred his delicacies to be sautéed with herbs and spices. Abel had shown a preference for limb displacement. Each could be curved into art forms. For instance, the Shrike incident. What a duo they had been! Posing the arms and legs of the conductor of a moderate symposium long before the dynamic actions of the 'Chesapeake Butcher'. It inspired Dr. Hughes displacement since she was the rude girlfriend of Frederick, Hannibal thought it fitting. An eye for an eye. A bit of retaliation on behalf of his old friend.

Since the original path hadn't gone so well for Abel.

Will Graham saw to that.

To Abel's incarceration.

It was his interference on their work together that led Hannibal to reluctantly unleash Francis Dolarhyde upon poor Will.

Will took this interference as intended. A threat. A reminder. Because Hannibal would stop at nothing to make amends for vulgarity. To stop Mason Verger's sick exploits. Even against a friend.

He paced like a sleek feline down the hall, ready for the performance of a lifetime. The participants involved in tonight's show would not be immediately present, nor could they keep their eyes trained on the shadows of this facility. Even if they _were_ present. For Hannibal moved too quickly. Panther like. Powerful, aggressive, and graceful. His eyes adjusted easily to the darkness as he retrieved the necessary tools. Needles. Serums. Ropes. A cranial saw. His concentration was broken when a piercing scream cut through his chest.

A scream that he would know whether he was blind, deaf, or dumb.

OoOoOoO

Hannibal slid through the slick ventilation system like a serpent, removed a portion of a ceiling tile, and felt his blood solidify into ice.

Clarice was bound to a cart-dolly. Ropes tied tight around her limb's major joints; elbows, knees, ankles. She donned a hockey mask and a mouth guard used for controlling the animals of Chesapeake Zoo. Not unlike the one that Abel Gideon wore in the confines of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. She screamed again. Not in pain or fear. But in anger.

Yes! Clarice had fire!

His iced blood, warmed. Ignited. It was fire. Her fire.

Fight! Fight! He silently cheered for her.

More voices approached. They shoved a matching cart-dolly with another body tied and bound. The 2 Italian's pushed and positioned Abel Gideon next to Clarice. Hannibal detected that these were the same men that took Clarice and intercepted the transport vehicle toting Abel to his new destination. The same men that were tracking Hannibal and Will Graham after Jack Crawford's funeral. Only good sense and misdirection allowed Hannibal to hunt _them_ instead of the other way around.

"Mason!" A male voice called in a panic. "Mason, my source came through. Abel Gideon's escape is going public within the hour. The Director of that hospital is directing them north instead of south. The false van has a honing device."

Hannibal wasn't surprised to see the Congressman present.

"Krendler, you lousy piece of shit! You don't deserve that badge you're so got-damned proud of." Clarice hissed through the mask's mouth guard.

Hannibal watched the Congressman stroll up to Clarice's cart-dolly and stroke her hip suggestively. "After the flap you caused at the field office, the search warrants, and the depositions, don't you think that you've created enough trouble? Don't you think that cowboy style of Marshalling has set you back far enough? I'll give you a chance. A single chance." He paused and Hannibal had to strain his attuned ears to hear the next words. "Let me fuck you. Let me fuck you, and this will all go away. Hmm, Clarice?"

The world quieted as Hannibal took a calm breath.

"Not in a thousand years." Clarice's voice rang level.

Good girl, Hannibal thought quietly

"Have it your way." Krendler turned to 1 of the Italians. "Carlo, wheel that bitch into the next room."

(O)

Earlier, Abel had theatrically faked his 'coming around' from the feigned doped stupor. Margot was summoned, as she was the least threatened by Abel's manic tendencies. A former patient and all. A gun was trained on each of them while they were strapped to the cart-dolly. Margot gave a subtle nod when she tied the victims down. The captured duo was left alone again, giving Abel just enough time to give an explanation to the growing impatience of Clarice Starling. He did not dare rouse her attention towards the ceiling.

Mason's whirling wheelchair sounded its approach on the viewing area.

And still… nobody had noticed the gaping hole in the ceiling from the missing gray potted tile. Nobody noticed the pair of red eyes watching them. Nobody except for Abel.

The dutiful Margot positioned stoically behind him.

"Krendler! Krendler! You sick piece of shit! I swear I'll kill you!"

The red head shouted, spit, and screamed, but she never loosened the ropes. Abel watched the woman in admiration and thought that it was no wander why his good friend Hannibal had fallen for the former Special Agent.

 _For she was like him._

Carlo carted her away through the corridor. Likely into the custody of Krendler. A man just as sick as Mason Verger.

"Where is Dr. Lecter?" Mason's speech registered. "You have exactly 3 chances to give me an answer before I push the buttons that open your gate."

The bear's growling could be heard through the metal trap doors. Abel could not see them, but knew that the viewing area had a full view of the enraged beasts. It would be the perfect area to watch as those feral creatures ripped a person apart. Like going to the theater. The curtains would pull back and the show would begin. Only this time, it had the prospect of spraying the audience with blood.

"Perhaps, Dr. Lecter has gone home." Margot suggested.

"Shut up." Mason ordered. "Dr. Gideon, I'm waiting."

The lever button for 'UP' was pushed only for a moment, but it was enough to see the 5 inch long claws gnash through. The paw tore and scratched and mauled in its hunt for a meal. For days these bears have been starved. Having to be separated just so they wouldn't kill each other. A grown man would be torn to pieces by just 1 of those sharp claws. The growling and roaring sounds intensified.

"Where is he?" Mason asked again. "I've got all of the time in the world, but you do not."

Cordell leaned over and said to his boss, "Dr. Lecter is not in his office or at home, but he is back from Baltimore. His car is in his garage and there were wet tire marks leaving his drive way."

Mason's excitement could not be dampened not by any news. He had the man responsible for his ruined body. Years of waiting finally coming to a culmination. Though it was dangerous to get what you wanted after waiting for so long. What would Mason do once Abel Gideon and Hannibal Lecter was dead?

"Cordell, get me a martini."

"Sir?"

"A martini, use that Starling bitch to get those tears." Mason always flavored his daily martinis with the tears of the weak. Margot, daycare children. Whoever.

Abel addressed them. "Yes Cordell, make sure to get that salty martini."

Mason touched the lever again and watched as another bear tried to claw his way to a morsel of food. The arms and snouts huffing and grinding to get inside.

"You didn't say 2." Mason toyed.

"That man is mad." 1 of the Italian men exclaimed.

(O)

Starling was wheeled into a feed bag storage room by Carlo. She had bowed her joints apart to indicate how tight the ropes were, but that was not how Paul wanted her positioned. He bound each wrist and ankle to a hardy metal shelf rack tight enough to cut off the circulation. Though, not without a struggle.

She pulled against the shelf, but it only caused a slight jarring of supplies.

"You slimy bastard!" Starling bellowed through the mask.

He ignored her comment as he unbuttoned her blouse. Eager and hungry. Her bare breasts greeted him again. A few tiny bruises marked her flesh from where he prodded earlier. Paul felt his dick twitch in anticipation.

"Need any help with this?" Carlo asked Paul. His eyes drifting to Starling.

"Stick your finger up her." Paul suggested. "I'll be right back. Forgot something. Don't go anywhere." He joked. His cigarette's, a pack of LUCKY'S sat on the viewing area. He would need them tonight to brand his latest piece of pussy. He decided to take his time with her tonight; rushing something like this would only make her relief go away quicker. He wanted to humiliate her; degrade her flesh and pride into ashes. Before she was thrown into the pit of bears.

Dr. Lecter would soon surface, be killed, and no one would be the wiser.

Blood pumped and hummed loudly in his ears during his excitement in the storage which had soundly tuned out the commotion going on in the feeding pod. He looked down. Margot and Mason were nowhere to be seen.

Screams and blood lined the walls.

Paul froze the instant he saw Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Dr. Abel Gideon embrace in a brotherly hug. Not in the feeding pit with the snarling bears. But on the viewing area. Above them.

Blood dripped from a scalpel.

Their bodies were covered in gore.


	23. Chapter 23

Hannibal- 23

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

 _**Note to Reader**_

 _This chapter contains disturbing imagery. Continue with care._

23

Hannibal watched from his perch. If a divine entity ever did exist, surely this would be their view. The busy movements of these mundane creatures. They were not unlike insects flitting about. Yes, he imagined a great deity could not have a better vantage. Though Hannibal no longer believed in such things, had not in several years. Not since Mischa had left this world so viciously.

He pushed the unwelcome memory away and focused on the beetles below him.

Once Clarice was removed from the concrete feeding den, he dropped from the ceiling tile. His body absorbed the gravity easily. Abel shed his ropes using the scalpel that Margot had slipped him before his transport from the retched hospital.

"Good evening, old friend." Abel smirked. "Shall the festivities begin?"

"Ciao vecchio amico." Hannibal replied. The hint of a smirk on his lips. Clarice's scent was the only pleasant smell in this facility, he noticed.

"Get the tranquilizer!" Mason bawled desperately.

The noise seemed to aggravate the bears. Their pawing and snarling intensified and the metal feeding door began to bow as the door itself started to splinter. These animals were nothing like livestock. They were feral. Beautiful. And very hungry. Hannibal felt the same; kindred with these magnificent, brutal beasts.

Margot addressed the closest man with a 'thwack' to the back of the head. He collapsed to the floor, dazed.

"What? What are you doing? Mason asked her, confused.

"Taking my life back!" She wailed as she disabled the mechanisms of his wheelchair, pushed him back, and helped Abel and Hannibal scale the wall to the viewing area.

"Cordell! Cordell!" Mason shouted at the dazed man stumbling to his feet.

"Ah, hello Cordell." Abel used his borrowed scalpel, stuck the man in the abdomen once, and then slit the Achilles tendon. The slice so thin, Hannibal imagined that the injury hadn't triggered pain. Cordell's arms pin-wheeled when the tendon muscles failed for proper motor control and he was pushed over the side of the viewing area with ease. When he landed, Hannibal caught the distinct sound of ribs cracking. "A leg you think?" Abel asked him in a composed manner, as if he were asking medical opinion.

"3 or 4 ribs, I think." Hannibal answered.

"Good evening, Tommaso." Abel turned on him, but saw his prize sitting a distance away and scowling in fear. "Mason." His friend's tone held all of the edge that years of vengeance cultivated.

This was Abel's show, after all. Hannibal was just the conductor.

The Italian moved between Mason and Abel.

This man, Tommaso, had been in close proximity with his lamb. Her soft L'air Du Temps scent wafted delicately. Tommaso pulled up the tranquilizer rifle to fire, but was deflected when Hannibal moved with that unnatural swiftness and latched his teeth in his opponent's throat. He tore the sternocleidomastoid muscle and broke the sternum in a single blow. Tossing the body into the feeding pod, Hannibal pushed the lever of the splintered door in the feeding pod.

The wounded men squealed in terror when the first bear barreled into the feeding pod. And a second. And a third entered into the crowded space. The animals were wrought with dehydration and hunger pains. Starvation had caused their furry hides to droop away from their normally enormous bellies. It was a sea of aggression and fright. Blood sprayed and carnage spilled. The wounded men's cries became gargled and choked until all that could be heard was the occasional glug and scrape against concrete.

Abel observed. "It is a really lovely sight."

Margot deposited near him.

Hannibal joined them.

Mason whined and cried. And for a few moments, he was ignored.

The trio stood in awe of the massive animals. The wiry fur. The constant snorting and rooting for bone marrow. The distinctive crunch and chomp. The piercing silence.

"Well, my dear, I guess we should get on with it." Abel took Margot's hand. "You and I will do the hard part together, but you must understand that I'll need provisions for escape."

"I'll take care of you, Doctor. I swear." Margot promised.

"I had no doubts. Hannibal, friend, go and get the girl. I've got the blame on this." Abel said as he watched Margot wheel the screaming sibling away.

"You will do well with your newfound freedom." Hannibal paused. "Thank you for doing this for Margot and Judy. They will be excellent mothers. Your present is waiting in the testing laboratory. You'll find him alert."

"Ah yes, Frederick." Abel grinned.

They hugged as friends. Brothers of the art of blood.

(O)

Clarice grit her teeth when Carlo sneered at the view of her naked breasts and Krendler's lurid suggestion. "Touch me and I'll kill you quicker than cutting off the head of a rattler." She had worked her ankles loose from the poor knotting skills.

"You ca't do nuffing but take it." The Italian crooned a step closer. "I'll be gentle."

When he pitched forward, Clarice used her stout mountain strength, rocked the shelf, and caused several heavy feed sacks to fall upon her enemy. Carlo lay at her feet, his neck visibly broken. She waited for the remorse to wrack her core. The way it did when she killed Evelda and Buffalo Bill. The nerves of Carlo's body gave its final twitches.

Remorse never came.

But Krendler did.

He was sweating and pale when he slammed the door shut. It had no lock, so he began stacking feed sacks. A tranquilizer rifle sat near. If only she could get to it!

"They fucking killed everyone!" Krendler said in short, panicky breaths. He glanced up. "This is YOUR fault!" He picked up the rifle and pulled the trigger. The safety feature was locked and he couldn't figure out the release, so he shucked the clip. The dart released into his palm and he held it high above Clarice. Just as he stabbed it into her arm, she head-butted his face.

Blood gushed down when he slumped to the floor.

Clarice's vision instantly blurred as her headed lolled on her shoulders.

(O)

Clarice's arms were outstretched straight from the shoulders and her ankles dragged the floor. Feed grain sacks lay all around her. Likely from how much she had fought against the now unconscious men at her feet. No, he mentally corrected. 1 unconscious man and 1 dead man. Interesting.

Hannibal thought that she looked a bit like an altarpiece. A dead Carlo and an unaware Krendler. The worshipers. Hannibal too, could see himself give into the divinity of Clarice. If she were a religion or moniker. If she demanded it, he would light dozens of candles, anoint a sacrifice in musky oils, drink a suicidal tonic, or pray as every heathen does. Just for her.

He plucked the dart, sucked out the poisons, and dutifully ignored her nakedness… until he noticed faint bruising.

So, the Congressman had tried to humiliate Hannibal's Goddess. No doubt, the grotesque man thought that he succeeded with the molestation. Clarice would never allow this form of touching and Hannibal reasoned that she must have been unconscious. Krendler was no better than a teenager. Feverish and manic with pawing and fondling. Yet, he did not know fear. Fear was a handy too. A weapon.

Hannibal felt his teeth grind and his taut muscles ache.

He demanded this fear!

Leaning down, he took the Congressman by the shoulders and found the jugular vein; ready to end her humiliation. Suddenly, Clarice's shadow crossed them both and Hannibal knew that a higher power truly did exist. Paul Krendler was not his to kill. This rude, terrible, repellent man could never belong in Hannibal's long list of penitent victims.

This kill belonged to _Clarice_.

And _she_ must command the Congressman's fear.

Not him.

Loading the tranquilizer rifle, he shot a dart into the Congressman's leg for good measure.

Then, Hannibal lifted Clarice into his arms, swept her to his blacked out van, and returned with the unconscious Congressman. He thought that vile man might be therapeutic for his beautiful center of worship.

(O)

Mason had never felt fear like this. The blood vessels pulsed angrily over the bones of his frail body. The breathing apparatus swirled and whined to keep up with the inflow of oxygen from the heavy breathing. He rolled a goggled eye to find something, anything to save him.

His beastly framed sister found an electric animal prod, tested the current, and asked Dr. Gideon a question in a voice too low to register.

"What's happening?" He asked fearfully.

"They're all dead." Margot answered. "Soon, you and Frederick will be too."

Froth appeared at Mason's mouth. "You fucking bitch!" The fricative 'F' lost in his speech. "Gideon, whatever your agreement with her is, she has no control without my consent!" The lie was too easily detected and ignored. "Whatever it is, I'll double, NO, triple it!"

"I'm not doing this for the money. Besides, _I'm_ not going to kill you."

Mason didn't like where this was headed.

"No dear brother, I'm going to kill you." Margot stroked his head.

"Cordell! Cordell!" He shouted.

"He's dead."

"Are you ready, Margot?" The Doctor asked her. "Frederick, can you see? I want to make sure that everyone can see." The former surgeon held out his arms in a posture of eagerness and professionalism that commanded attention. "What we are performing is simple Medical Science really. Just a stimulation of the prostate gland for artificial insemination. Frederick, you are to act as my clock. I want you to count the seconds aloud." He turned to Margot. "I have a bet with Hannibal and I plan to win. Care to wager? Frederick? Would you like in the pool? No? That's too bad."

Margot lifted Mason onto a stainless steel table, stripped him of his dressing gown, and flipped him onto his stomach. Mason could not struggle against her massive strength or the cold shock of steel beneath him.

"Huh, his legs look a bit like rolled dough." Dr. Gideon noted.

Frederick sniffled and snotted, but otherwise, did not make any other sounds of protest.

"Margot, here are some gloves. Ah! I see you've got a fun little tool!" He took the electric animal prod from her. "Retrieve the beaker, please. Thank you. Ready?"

Mason struggled to see what they were doing.

She nodded, grit her teeth, and leaned down to her brother's ruined ear. "Remember Mason, how you'd spit for lubrication? Bet you wish I'd use some now!"

"Frederick! Begin!"

Frederick whispered, "1, 2, 3, 4…" His eyes wide in horror.

Mason bellowed and cried, the sound was not unlike a donkey braying.

He swore and spat and hissed.

Frederick was too afraid to look away, even after the 42 seconds it took to retrieve the Verger lineage from Mason. His counting continued in a low, broken hum.

The sperm was flash frozen in moments.

"Did you win the bet?" Margot asked Dr. Gideon. An outsider may have thought she'd asked a question about an Equestrian wager and not something as morbid as what had just happened.

The Doctor returned, hands cleaned and toweled dry. "Well of course I did. Hannibal gave Mason too much credit. Are you ready to die, Mason?"

He cursed and frothed and gasped out hostilities.

"The hard part is over Margot. Now you have to decide…"

What? What did she have to decide? Mason wondered stupidly.

She lifted her brother and carried him to the bears.

"I loved you. As a sister can love her only brother. God will forgive this. And I will forgive Him… When Judy is pregnant. Now it is your turn to take the chocolate, Mason." She dropped her frail brother into the feeding pod. He was sure that something broke when he landed, though he could only concentrate on the spoils around the floor. Chewed bits of flesh and puddles of raw, red goo.

A large paw pressed onto the rolled dough of his legs.

The bears ate Mason piece by piece.

Margot went to the storage room, dragged the corpse to the pit, hoisted several feed sacks, and fed the bears a proper meal. She did not miss her sick, damaged brother.

OoOoOoO

 **Thank you to those who have messaged me or posted reviews. Each comment helps my creative process and gives me fortitude to keep writing.**


	24. Chapter 24

Hannibal- 24

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

24

The sky was as black as tarmac and caused the moon to pop brightly against swirling gray clouds. The impending storm would last for several days. Time. What a strange thing to measure. The theory of relativity taught humans that everything is the same; relative to one another. Speed, light, color, perception, love, demons, gods, animals, and vegetation. Even thinking about recent events; what had seemed nearly a lifetime ago, had only been a few hours.

It was all relative.

The people in their Dutch Colonial beds slept in quiet peace. The way the wind tousled the tree branches leading up the chat gravel driveway was quite mesmerizing. A black van's tires crunched gently as Lecter Manor came into view.

It was a beautiful blond brick building, with 3 stories, and a turret.

The trees were in full bloom, their fragrance wispy and potent.

The view reminded Hannibal of the evening before the fire of his childhood home. Every brick, stone, hedge, tree, and window mimicked the original Lecter Manor. But nothing on the inside was a mimicry. It was not charred or smelled of smoke. The new manor was clean, unsoiled.

It held new memories.

Memories yet to be made.

And still, it was connected to his childhood home. By relativity. Everything is the same; or so the philosophers claimed.

He carried Congressman Paul Krendler with anticipation into the cellar, placed his limp body on a pallet, and restrained him to a chain on the wall. Iris Baker, during her tenure on that very pallet, had scratched a little note just below the chain fastener.

"Welcome it." The scratched markings read.

Hannibal remembered how well the drug addict had died and thought that it was fitting for the Congressman to wake up to view her befuddled advice.

He returned to the van.

Carrying Clarice gave another, more confusing, feeling of anticipation.

His heartrate spiked just a fraction.

Something no longer uncommon when he was amidst the little lamb's company. He could control his pulse with a single thought, but why bother? Her head lay so peacefully against his chest. Could she hear it? He wondered. The thumping madness calling out to her unconsciousness. How he wanted his blood-song to reach her ears!

He must plan something special for her.

A fine dinner, bouquets of flowers, silk clothes.

But first, he addressed her more pressing medical needs. Clarice was dehydrated, poisoned, and depleted of her tenacity. A saline drip was placed carefully through an IV butterfly bandage on the back of her hand, he clothed her in silken pajamas, and directed his efforts on all of the cuts, bruises, and ailing's of her body. He treated her brief nakedness as any physician would, with clinical precision only.

Her room held all of the traces of elegance and recollection.

Trunks of drawings, a couple of scorched photos of Count and Lady Lecter, a broken black pearl necklace, and a wooden carving of a death's-head moth.

In time, he chuckled silently as the reference, in time. Yes, in time, he would reveal to Clarice each item in this trunk. But for now, he watched her carefully from a plush armchair with his fingers steepled underneath his chin. Her pupils reacted to light and her blood pressure leveled. Given enough time, his lamb would recover beautifully.

From his perch, he wrote a letter to Mischa in Lithuanian, solved several of his own calculations, and sketched his own version of Mona Lisa. Only using Clarice's features as a reference.

Perhaps he would use the confines of his mind palace to introduce his darling sister Mischa to Clarice. He wanted them to exist together in the physical world, but it was a possibility that even the theory of relativity could never connect.

(O)

Judy held Margot's hand while Chief Officer Rick Grant relayed the news of the massacre at the Chesapeake Zoo.

She knew it had been wise of Margot to not clean up the goopy mess. The only witness, Dr. Abel Gideon, would never turn them over. It would only incriminate himself and he'd receive lethal injection.

It had been a gruesome thing, Judy thought, but also beautiful.

Margot cried real tears upon hearing about Mason's murder. Though, she was not sad for losing her sadistic brother. She was relieved. And moreover, she was very happy that Judy was exactly 24 hours pregnant. Of course, neither of them actually knew that yet. It was too early to tell. But they believed.

As they had never been able to do before.

Dr. Gideon had performed the artificial insemination, covered evidence, and left for a small island somewhere off the coast of New Zealand all in the span of a few hours.

It was miraculous work.

For several weeks, the bear exhibit was dissected by the criminalists and FBI. Paper trails of money exchange connected former Congressman Paul Krendler to the massacre. Which led to the open investigation of a certain escapee. Phone lines were traced to the Director of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane pinning down the probability of the Congressman's involvement of assisting in the escape.

The FBI had taken the Director into custody just this morning.

Former Congressman Paul Krendler was suspected to be somewhere with the murdering lunatic Dr. Gideon with several millions from Mason Verger's bank accounts. A nationwide man hunt for the duo was under siege by the FBI and the horrid newspaper, _the Tattler_ , was having a hay day of newsworthy interviews. 1 story included a recently abused waitress, who had nothing but terrible things to say about the former Congressman. And burn scars to back up her story.

Not to mention the coverage of the brutal murder of Frederick Chilton.

Judy read the paper over the next few weeks with mild amusement.

Margot and Judy spoke long into the evenings about their future. Once their names were cleared by the police, they celebrated by taking a pregnancy test.

It was positive.

8 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days later, a baby boy named Marcus Vincent Verger was born. He was a healthy child with 2 strong mothers and was raised in a fine mansion of the Verger lineage.

The day the child was brought home, an unrecognized wine label was delivered. It tasted tropical and had a light dusting of sand in the box it came in. There was no return address. Though, a return address was not needed to know where the vintage came from. Or rather, _who_ it came from.

(O)

Clarice woke to the scent of fresh flowers and clean soap. When she moved, her body ached so deeply, that sleep took hold of her. It happened twice more that day, each time, she woke to a voice talking softly to her.

She couldn't understand that voice, it was too far away. She thought.

Fear and pain muddied her dreams, so that the next time she woke, she was determined to confront it. The room was pleasant and familiar. Her skin was warm and tingled with a minty ointment. Likely a balm to soothe soreness.

Dr. Lecter stood away from her as she lifted herself from the fine bed. "Good evening, Clarice." His red lips were the only movement he made.

"Good evening, Dr. Lecter." She observed that it had been some time since she had used her muscles and the bathroom facilities. Her eyes took in the room swiftly. There was a small fire crackling, the light it cast was soft. A saline drip hung, though it was not attached to anything or anyone. Crystal vases filled with springtime bouquets lay on every flat surface. And next to an armchair, was a book, newspaper, and sketchpad. A smile toyed with her mouth at the thought of having such a protector watch over her.

"Before you take too many steps, would you mind if I checked something?" She nodded and watched him retrieve a small flash light. "Look into the light, please." Dr. Lecter stepped forward and performed his brief examination for a concussion. He smelled like fleece leather and laundry soap. "Thank you. All is well. Shall I assist you to the facilities? No doubt you'd like to refresh yourself too. I'll be here if you should need me."

He kept a light pressure at her elbow and back as he guided into the comfortable bathroom.

Clarice showered with gardenia and jasmine shampoo handmade by LECTER CUTTINGS, INC. Matching soap and lotion accompanied. The fragrance reminded her of the tiny perfume bottle that she had given away to her good friend Ardelia. The memory of her friend brought her back to reality and gave her purpose.

When she emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and clothed, Dr. Lecter greeted her with strong broth and herb bread. "I must insist on you remaining in here for another night. Tomorrow, I think it safe for you to venture out and strengthen your muscles. There is a closet full of garments that you may wish to wear… or if not, I will fetch whatever you want. Your personal things are in the top drawer, if you want any of it."

He helped her back to the bed, placed a tray over her lap, and positioned himself in the chair by the fire.

She ate the broth and drank mint tea. When she finished, she opened the top drawer and saw her handbag, motorcycle keys, a Glock 9 mm, and a set of handcuffs.

So, he was offering Clarice a choice. Leave him and charge forth back to the establishment or to her own life. Or arrest him. Turn Dr. Lecter into the proper authorities. Lock the man away in an institution. Did he think that she was still born of the institution like her father? That she could never break free of it?

And how badly she wanted to break free of all of those expectations!

"Thank you, Dr. Lecter." She shut the drawer.

He had watched her every move and seemed just as confused as she had seemed certain.

She smiled. It was not unlike the smile of a jackal.

(O)


	25. Chapter 25

Hannibal- 25

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

25

Rain came down in sheets, drenching the land.

It reminded Clarice of the morning after her father's funeral. The simple home and been stripped of every personal possession to pay off the month's rent and other debt her parent's accumulated during their life together. Momma had passed away before the next month's rent was due.

Yes. Clarice was happy that the rain poured now. It suited her mood.

In this fine manor, with a fine man. A creative, stimulating, and uniquely handsome man. His features were unusual individually, but put them together and he really did make a fine specimen. She turned away from the window and caught Dr. Lecter sketching near the fireplace in what she now claimed to be her room.

At a glance, she saw that he had been sketching her profile.

He allowed her a few moments before meeting her stare. "Clarice, are you ready to talk? It has been nearly 3 days since you said anything at all. I'm beginning to worry." His tone made it clear that he was worried, but also a bit annoyed.

She turned to face her distorted reflection through the window again.

Clarice was herself and in another light, she was not herself.

"I'm starting to suspect that you have a great deal on your mind that you are sorting through. Perhaps, my suggestion regarding the… disposition of former Congressman Paul Krender? He remains conscious, well fed, and sleeps comfortably. Though, his strength is growing and I fear that he may begin to resist my hospitality."

"Doctor, your hospitality has never been in question." It hurt a bit to speak since she hadn't used her voice for several days.

She noticed the air shift around her and knew that he had stood close. "Then, may I ask what is troubling you, if not my treatment of your attacker?"

Clarice smirked a bit at the not so subtle reminder that Dr. Lecter had saved her from Krendler's nasty intentions.

"You still have the paper?" He observed as he picked it up. "Shall I pitch it into the rubbish bin?"

She turned. "No, I'd like to save it."

"Planning on adding it to a scrapbook collection? Perhaps next to the capture of Buffalo Bill? Or maybe, you collect as I do. A church fire sent 8 disciples to heaven last week in Verona."

Clarice read between the verbose lines of her host. Dr. Lecter still questioned her affections. Would she turn him over to the FBI or join him with his cannibalistic endeavors? "I have no interest in scrapbooking. But I am working on a project. Fine tuning it." She lifted the _Tattler_ newspaper to read the front page. The headline said:

 _Corruption in the FBI. Suspect still at Large!_

 _Former Congressman Paul Krendler is suspected to be at large with Dr. Abel Gideon. An escaped murderer who most recently broke out of Boston's Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Continued on page 7._

Clarice knew that page 7 held the details of a money trail linking Mason Verger, Frederick Chilton (his grisly murder), and a host of other names. Some were politicians. The FBI was having a rough turn around under the new leadership. Will Graham himself had another ex-posé; a recap of his brutal encounter with Abel Gideon. And a few women had come forward to report Krendler's brutal abuse on their person.

Clarice was having a difficult time trying to understand her own emotional state towards that sicko. Much less dealing with matters of her shredded heart.

"Doctor, you've read this."

"I have."

"I want to be sure about my plans before doing anything… irrational."

"You are anything but irrational." He replied. "What can I do to help you?"

"I'd like to borrow your car. I don't have the strength to ride my motorcycle just yet."

"Might I offer an alternative?" He offered.

"Go on."

"We can leave. Travel. Go wherever you'd like."

She stared at him in silence until he could no longer bear it.

"Or, if my company is no longer suitable to your tastes, I can send you somewhere. Give you the means to travel the world. If that is your wish." He breathed in deeply as if to brace himself from something painful. "I wouldn't have to be with you, if that is what you wish. If too much has happened, knowing I am… what I am, if it is too much…" He seemed unwilling to continue.

"Hannibal," Clarice reached out and took his steady hand, "If I travel the world, I'd like you with me. And for my plans regarding Krendler, I'll need you with me."

He quirked his head. "What are your plans?"

She pointed to page 7 of the _Tattler_. "I need to speak with this waitress first." Clarice needed concrete evidence to follow through with her unspoken intentions. She thought that Hannibal's chin raised in admiration. Forever the dutiful agent.

(O)

Paul Krendler spent the first few days in this dank basement in complete fear. In another life, he and his wife would be spending their vacation on a beach in Bora Bora. Her body looked amazing after a fresh tan. Of course now, he was certain that his wife might be under surveillance, detained, and possibly charged with an indictment. She didn't have the strength to remain loyal under pressure.

The word "AUDIT" haunted his nightmares.

The passage of money from Mason Verger to an account in the Cayman Islands would be dissected now that the gimp was dead. And his Amazon sister, Margot had provided the Chief Grant direct access into her bank accounts. According to this week's news that Lecter was so keen to provide. No doubt the lesbian wanted to clear her own name and throw Paul under the bus.

But that was no longer the point.

Paul was alive and healing. He planned to keep it that way, even if it meant killing Lecter and Starling with his massive bare hands.

(O)

The hotelier's restaurant had a nice, generic atmosphere. It was clean. Easy to spot each patron or easy enough to disappear into the crowd. Whatever the case may be. She chose a table in the corner next to the water fountain; the rushing water could mask their conversation should a person venture too close or become curious.

"Miss Rockford, thank you for meeting with me." Clarice watched the slender strawberry blonde sit. It was clear that the young woman was nervous, uncomfortable.

She kept her argyle handbag on her shoulder, ready to bolt if necessary.

"Like I told ya lady, I've already talked to the police." She pronounced it pole-eeece. Her thick southern accent explained a lot to Clarice. "Nothing more to say to you or anyone else."

"I'm not with the police anymore, but I knew Mr. Krendler."

The young woman flushed in anger. "Think I'm lying too, don't ya?! Just like that wife of his. She come at me spittin' and swearin'. Right here, where I work! Called me a 2-bit ho and that I was out for my 15 minutes of fame." She stood, eager to lash out or run. "I'm not a liar."

Clarice calmly unbuttoned her blouse to the middle of her sternum. Miss Rockford froze at such a thing. "Do you see these bruises? They're fading fast now, but they were a lot darker not too long ago. He put those fat, nasty hands on me too." The purple fingerprints had changed to a yellowish green, but the marks covered her entire breast plate. Clarice fastened her blouse without a thought to her immodesty.

"He did that?" She collapsed into the chair.

"Would've done worse if my friend hadn't helped me. I just thought you should know, Miss Rockford."

"Call me Jessie." She took a long drink of iced water and removed her pink swirled scarf. "It's going to scar." A small, circular scab lay on the skinny neck. "I met him here at work. He kept ordering the expensive stuff, ya know, like in the movies. He's not that attractive, but he's built. I like that. Or I did. Until he went to hurting me."

Clarice gave her a few moments to recover and replied. "I'm not as brave as you."

Jessie gave her a bewildered look.

"I just mean that, you reported him, and I think that is brave."

"That isn't brave." Jessie replied sadly.

"If it were me, I'd have taken the cowardly approach and killed his ass."

Jessie gave a bark of laughter. " _That's_ the brave thing to do."

Clarice shook her head. "No, what you're doing to him, is humiliating his life. The one that he worked so hard to obtain. What I'd have done would be too cowardly and quick. Make that bastard suffer just as much as you can. I bet the Bureau will help you too, just to get you to quiet down. Raise holy hell when they do that. Lawyer up too. It may cost you in the beginning, but you'll be compensated. Trust me."

"Could you?" Jessie looked Clarice square in the eye. "Could you do it? Kill him?" She waved in general. "If you ever found him in this great big-ole world of ours, would you kill him? Because I think if anyone should, it should be you. My money would be on you."

The women shook hands and left each other with a different outlook on life.

 **HAPPY HALLOWEEN, FOLKS. HAVE FUN & BE SAFE.**


	26. Chapter 26

Hannibal- 26

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

26

Days turned into weeks and still no word from his little bird.

Hannibal relived their last conversation every day since she left while he maintained the putrid life of Former Congressman Paul Krendler. _Upon her request_.

The evening that Clarice left had been the first day of many where the sun shone and the sky was bright. She spent the first hours of the day in the morning-sun-room where the prisms danced on the plaster until the sun fell into the afternoon. He had given her space; sensing a need of separation. He found his Thrush in the evening-sun-room reading a book on the Fibonacci Sequence. She sensed his presence and asked if supper was ready.

The dining room had been fully enchanted on their last evening together, Hannibal reflected.

He dared not use it in her absence. _Upon her request_.

Sacromonte omelets with liver, fresh dill picked from this very room, flaked parmesan, sea salt, and a selection of sweet wasabi sauce. The dish was arranged artfully with quail eggs, an orange slice, and a feather from a thrush and a starling. His subtle reminder of her choices.

In fact, several of the floral bouquets were arranged in this similar manner.

He poured them each a glass of sparkling water with mint leaves.

Hannibal's eyes never left hers as she took the first bite. She chewed in a way that he found sensual. She ate slowly, but not in vulgarity. More to enjoy the tastes much as he himself did.

She took a drink, cleared her shapely mouth, and breathed in. These moments were the most taxing of his life. What were Clarice's intentions? Did she mean to turn him over to the FBI? Could she be finally coming to a decision of their own relationship? His mind was in turmoil. She held his life in whatever choice she resolved. Starling or Thrush, my dear Clarice?

"Hannibal." She used his Christian name and how it ached to hear coming from her lovely throat. Her veins pulsed twice before she spoke. "I'm going to do a bit of traveling and I'd ask that if you will, please keep Krendler here."

He chewed thoughtfully without tasting, for the fine dish seemed like sawdust now.

"Whatever you need, I will provide."

She smirked at him. "Yes, I know. I have come to several decisions in my…" She paused thoughtfully, "recuperation and need to follow up on a lead."

"A lead? How very obscure of you! Do you intend to join the FBI?"

Clarice smirked again and stroked the starling feather in the closest vase. "I had a few cases that were not properly closed before my suspension; I need to see them through."

Her answer left no room for negotiation. "In what condition should I keep Mr. Krendler?"

"Alive, healthy, but sedated if you must. I would prefer him to be as he is or was before."

Before. After. Everything was now relative to _before and after_.

"You mean to keep him the same vile, dishonorable, hyena? The man who has violated the very air by simply breathing? Do you not wish him to suffer as he has made you suffer?!" Hannibal's voice rose which surprised them both.

"If he has changed when I return, then I may rethink my plan. But I doubt that piece of shit will change. I want him to be able bodied. I want his strength. I want him to know what kind of man he is… before he faces me again." She said in earnest.

"And what kind of woman are you Clarice? The starling haunted by screaming lambs? The thrush with the beautiful song?"

She gulped the water and stood. "I don't know, but I will."

"Would you honor me with a dance before you leave? In case you decide that your motives keep you away." Hannibal noted her becoming blush and quickened breath. The Danube waltz played as they joined hands and stepped in front of the fireplace light. "You are lovely."

She remained silent for a beat. "Tell me that you'll wait."

"With pleasure and anticipation."

"I'm coming back and would like it if we could do this again."

"You'd 'like it'? Eh?" He toyed in annoyance.

Johann Strauss' final notes swelled when Clarice's hands circled around his neck and she pulled him into a passionate kiss. Her mouth did not allow Hannibal to take charge. It was by her demands, not his. The open mouths exchanged a salty sweet flavor and the softest of hisses. They broke away breathing erratically. "Yes, I would 'like it'." Her lips did not smirk, but they pouted in pure decadence.

Of course this moment had been relived ever since her departure.

Spring was coming to an end. The summer flower industry was booming. Paul Krendler was alive, well, strong, and healthy. Just as she had requested.

Where was she? Hannibal wondered every moment. Where was his little bird?

(O)

Meanwhile… in a small beach town in Florida…

Clarice poured Will Graham a cup of coffee as she joined him in his boat shop. Motors, gears, and the smell of machine calmed her. It always had. Tinkering was something that she found as soothing as a good novel.

She passed the mug over. "Get anywhere on that 82' Evinrude?" She passed over a screwdriver.

"No, they sent the wrong damn part… again." Will sighed as he spun the screwdriver in his hand. "It is the third time they've done that. I don't know if this motor will see any action before the end of the summer." He drank deeply without wincing from the hot temperature. "What about you? Get anywhere?"

"Yeah, my friend Ardelia shipped it here. Hope you don't mind me giving her your address." It wasn't a question.

Will shook his head. "Whatever you need. Want to talk?"

"Nah, I'm gonna join Molly and Josh for a picnic. They want you to come."

"Molly make her famous veggie sandwiches? I've not been able to embrace the vegetarianism entirely; I sneak into town now and again to grab a hamburger or steak. Even after everything I've seen… I am still a meat eater." He shrugged. "At least some of the time."

Will just couldn't let it lie. He thought it would be good for Clarice to sit and talk about Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Poet. Genius. Chef. And cannibal. Will spent hours telling her about all of his trust in his therapist and how that trust had been shot to hell when he confronted his friend. Part of Clarice understood that distrust and fear. Another part of her wanted to lash out at Will for betraying his friend. Which was the rational feeling? She had fought with this question since finding out; the cuts had healed, but they still burned. She thumbed them curiously.

"Did you know it at the time?" Clarice asked.

"You mean, did I know that my mentor was a cannibal?" He tipped his cup up again. "Not at first. And once I knew what I should have known all along, I confronted him."

"Which is why he turned Dollarhyde onto to killing you?"

"Francis Dollarhyde was not meant to kill me. Dr. Lecter didn't want my death, he wanted to shake me of my _fear of death_ and my fear of him"

"Excuse me, but that makes no fucking sense."

Will chuckled. "When I found out about the victims and his 'methods of disposal'… I looked at him in fear. Because I was afraid of becoming him. Of leading a lifestyle where I could choose victims for him and be okay with it. Murder is wrong, no matter how you spin it, or if it is deserved as Dr. Lecter seems to believe. Can you believe me when I said that I considered it?"

Clarice nodded, finally understanding. "Working with the FBI can do that. Especially when justice is not served as it should be." She looked at him a beat before asking. "Did you ever do it? Actually choose a victim?"

He stared hard at Clarice. The pale blue eyes were sun stroked, but held an old fear. Like shaking off a fresh nightmare. "I did. Though, I never acted on it. That's when I stopped consulting for the FBI. After Francis Dollarhyde, a part of me wanted revenge. Dr. Lecter knew it and sought me out." Will ran his hand through his hair. "He came hard at me, wooing me to make a decision to take a life. In the end, I ran away to the beach."

"Well, you chose a good hideaway. You still communicate with him. Why?" Clarice asked in an accusing tone.

Will blew out a deep sigh, "Because I understand him and he understands me. No matter what, through his eccentricities, we're still friends. My empathy doesn't allow me to forget his friendship." He continued. "You're like him. There are so many qualities that you both share. In fact, I think a part of him wants you to stay away from him."

"Why do you think that?!" She demanded in something close to fear.

"Because it would be easy for you to become him." Will said simply. "Come on, you're on vacation, so let's go to the beach."

Molly rounded them up to their own private beach. They swam, snorkeled, hunted for seashells, and sand crabs. When the sun set for the day, Will and Josh gathered driftwood to build a bonfire. Its crackling warmth could not reach Clarice. Her thoughts were in a fine manor a thousand miles away. She forced herself to the here and now. They played music and ate junk food long into the night. It was a friendship built to last.

The next morning found Clarice opening an express from her friend Ardelia Mapp. A note inside read, " _Hey girl, Sorry it took so long, but for some reason the Police Department didn't believe me when I told em' I was with the FBI. Can you believe it?! I went all Cajun on their ass. Kidding… kidding. Sorta. Head this way when you're ready for some gumbo or jerk chicken. Your sister, Ardie_ "

Clarice smiled at her friends' words and reread the letter before opening the rest of the thin cardboard envelope.

Inside was her father's badge.

The Police Department had confiscated it the morning after her father had passed away so that they wouldn't have to purchase a new one. The bastards wouldn't even let her father be buried with it. The star was the same, four points with the fifth broken off. With everything that she needed, she met Will in his shop. "I'm leaving and wanted to say thanks for all that you've done." She waited until Molly had taken Josh to his last day of school. Goodbyes were sore for her.

He sat up in surprise, "Are you going back to the FBI? You have a determined look that I've seen in Jack, especially if I've done something to piss him off." Will Graham's grin was large, genuine, and removed years from his scarred face.

Clarice was touched. It was the first mention of Jack Crawford that he had made. "No, I've got a few things to do, but I'm not going back to the FBI." She shook his hand. "Thank you. For everything."

Will Graham watched Clarice Starling-Thrush drive out of town. He hadn't been able to identify her decision, as she was a difficult person to read. A romantic thought of them building a life together floated in the distance, he smiled. A part of him wanted her to drive off to a faraway land; away from the world that she was familiar with and away from Dr. Lecter. Another part of him wanted her to kill the Doctor. It was a deep rooted part that tasted like vinegar and smelled of sewage. He shirked that feeling quickly and hoped that his new friend would come to peace with whatever decision she made.

(O)

Clarice looked down at the grave diggers when she heard the shovel hit the coffin with a 'thunk'. The badge got heavier in her hands.

"You want us to put it in there for ya, lady? No need for you to see him like this."

"No, I want to see." She said in a clipped tone.

The Hispanic man drew back the lid. It had crumbled in most spots allowing dirt inside. But the skeleton lay undisturbed. The man climbed out of the hole and muttered, "I'll be going on my break, so take your time, lady."

She waited until the gravedigger had left before she climbed down the hole and knelt beside her daddy's bones. A plastic sack held a few things in which was meant to be a formal goodbye.

Clarice screwed up her eyes really tight to remember her father as he once was. Tall in the doorway with hair slicked down with water as he came to the supper table and greeted her mama with a sweet smile and kiss to the cheek. She waited a beat to make sure this image stayed. "Hi daddy, I know, it's been awhile. Brought you some SNO-BALLS and an orange." She fished them out of the plastic sack and then the pocket knife with the blade broken off. She peeled the orange just as he used to, but didn't eat it.

"Daddy, I know you might be sore at me for not coming to visit, especially after I was suspended. The courthouse crowd is just filled with ego, crazy gossips. A sorry bunch of em' too." She paused. "I never shot anyone that I didn't have to and I never lied. I saved that junky's kid and another junky's brother. I hope you and mama are proud of me. I feel like you would be." Now came the hard part. "Daddy, it hurts to not have faith in the courthouse crowd and to watch murderers and see how they deal with those people in Washington or the FBI. You weren't in that crowd and I think that's why they were down on you too." She continued. "I love a man. I love him so much that it hurts to stay away. It hurts to think about sending him to prison. He loves me too."

Clarice stayed down in that dirt pit for an hour talking to her father as if he were alive and sitting next to her at the kitchen table. "I was really mad at you for dying. You knew how to shoot a gun, but you short-shucked that pump shotgun and those drugstore thieves got the better of you. Ardie sent me your old badge and a watchman's clock. This clock wasn't yours, but I wanted you here with me for this." She took the pocket knife and opened the clock to dismantle it; leaving it in pieces somewhere over the stomach area.

"Mama worked hard after you were gone. She did the best she could before she died of heartache, I went to the lamb and horse ranch." Her voice was barely a whisper now. "I had to save them. All of em'. I couldn't bear their torture." She referred to the slaughtering of the spring lambs, Jame Gumb, Hannibal. And she found that she could no longer bear the torture of staying away.

The badge was placed over her father's heart. "This used to mean as much to me as it did to you. I don't need it anymore. Not where I'm going."

Clarice was committed to action.

And this action drove her home.

(O)

Paul Krendler stretched out carefully on his cot, listening to the sounds of the house above him, and biding his time like a cat. The first few days he spent on this stained cot was somewhere between panic and fear. Over the weeks, he had figured that Starling was likely at the FBI. Taking credit where his was due and ruining his own name. Getting a promotion by laying on her slutty back. Making it impossible for Paul to crawl his way back to his former position. Or any position that wasn't behind bars.

Lecter enjoyed bringing him sections of the newspaper, reading it aloud, and then sharing some lengthy, bizarre insight to Paul's thoughts. The sick fucking queer probably wanted to molest him before eating him.

Paul was fed, clothed, and received plenty of rest.

When the mansion was quiet, Krendler would use his climber athleticism to do pushups and strengthen his core. He had slimmed up a bit, but that was in his own favor. He bet his body would be even more appealing to the lesser sex.

Because they _were_ lesser. Especially Starling.

He figured that she'd was going to kill him outright, but thought better of it and left him to the cannibal.

Krendler would be ready if that small looking freak tried anything. Paul was strong and he'd kill whomever tried to kill him. He could get out of this, jump the country, and use his off-shores account to live the remainder of his life comfortably. Preferably with a few more pretty notches on his headboard.

(O)

A rumble echoed the hills around the manor as if in welcome.

Hannibal would always remember the fine day at the end of May with deep fondness.

The day that Clarice returned on her loud motorcycle, with a western wind blowing her home, and a jackal smile playing on her blushing lips. Her blue-violet eyes were alight with a fire that he had never seen in her before.

Hannibal felt a chill run up his spine.

Passion? Fear? Perhaps a bit of both, he wondered in awe.

He had not felt fear in several decades.

"Good evening, Doctor Lecter." Clarice purred his name like silk.

"Good evening, Clarice." He answered.

"Could I trouble you for a fine supper tonight? It's been a hell-u-va long time since I've ate something worth a damn." Again, her Cheshire grin was stunning and unsettling, but her crassness made him return her smiles.

"What, might I ask, would you consider 'worth a damn'?"

She opened her gray leather moto-jacket, retrieved something from an inner pocket, and passed it over to him. Her shapely fingers stroked his left hand, lingering along the duplicated mid ray polydactyl digit. "I'd like this to be the last course served this evening." She said. "And you will need 3 place settings."

"3?" His brow furrowed as it concentrated on keeping a jealous tone from arising. "Who is your guest, Clarice?"

"I believe he has taken residence underneath the floorboards of the dining room."

Hannibal's eyes flicked down to the simple index card and up again. He finally understood. Clarice was a woman to be both admired and feared. She was both stunning and unsettling. Lovely and crass. Beautiful and sharp… like his cutlery. The lamb has become a lion. The starling transformed into an eagle.

"I'm going to greet my guest. I'll try not to disturb you. Too much." Clarice turned to leave.

"Clarice, do be careful. On your instructions, your guest is as he was when you left and quite… eager to be liberated once more."

"Good. That's exactly how I prefer it." She walked through the front door of Lector Manor.

Hannibal stood still for many moments before reading the recipe again. His eidetic memory hadn't forgotten the characters listed on this recipe card, but the comprehension had not quite… settled in his own mind yet.

 _Parmesean Crumbled Hyena Brains Ingredients:_

 _6 Hyena Brains_

 _Salt_

 _Pepper_

 _Parmesean_

 _Parsley stalks_

 _Lemon juice_

 _Egg, beaten_

 _Breadcrumbs_

 _Butter_


	27. Chapter 27

Hannibal- 27

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

 _**NOTE- Reader Warning! This chapter contains graphic imagery_

27

To Clarice, Paul Krendler was the portrait of frustration and failure. He had resented her since that late night in the office when she turned him down and told him to go home to his wife.

It was so long ago.

Right after graduating from the academy and accepting a position under Jack Crawford, the press was still stirring over the whole Wild-Bill-Buffalo craze. Clarice had not escaped the attentions of Krendler; as he was the one who was humiliated. It was meant to be his capture. Not hers. It was meant to further his career. Not hers.

And his resentment deepened.

A toxic combination of a festering rash and a budding tumor.

Clarice threw back the thick rug, found the heavy metal latch, and pulled up the cellar door. The room was thick concrete with a single light. Along the far wall, a man sat on a stained cot. A thick chain mounted to the wall was linked to his ankle and allowed just enough paces to reach the edge of the toilet.

She noted that the toilet had no lid or seat, nor was there toilet paper.

Dr. Lecgter had taken good care of him, as Krendler looked to be recently washed. She was glad to know that he was fed and clothed.

She sat on the wooden steps leading out of the cellar.

Krendler kept his seat planted on the stained cot and watched her every move.

To her, he was the icon of her career's failure. He was blamed for every injustice against her. Including the reason that her partner, John, had died. Krendler represented everything that was wrong with the penal system that she had worked so hard to become a part of. Could she overrule her judgment against the system?

It was the question that she left to find an answer to.

"Starling."

"Krendler."

His voice was strong and his muscles seemed harder through the clothing he now wore. It did not worry her, but she allowed the silence to stretch between them. She wanted Krendler's assessment just as he wanted hers. It took nearly 20 minutes before they were done sizing each other up.

Clarice imagined Dr. Lecter sketching this moment and wandered what he would name it? A Meeting of Enemies? Concrete Confrontations? She shrugged back into the moment. This was reality, not a _likeness_ of reality.

"I guess you wonder why I'm here." Clarice finally said.

His elbowed propped up on his knee. "Probably wanted to make sure that the queer kept me alive." Krendler's tone was too relaxed.

Clarice pursed her lips. Apparently, the time and distance could not change a person for the better. "I'm here to take you up on that offer." She said calmly.

He laughed a single grunt. "Want it bad, eh?"

"Not that offer."

He was visibly confused. "The only offer I've ever made to you was…"

"Pads. You want em' or not?" She interrupted. "Because I'm not here to fuck you."

He bared his teeth. Realization dawning. "You want to… what? Fight me?" He laughed a couple of angry chortles. "Are you serious?! You've been away for weeks, probably training, and look no different. You're a lanky country slut with no home and no job and no daddy to screw. You can't beat me, Starling. Not then. Not now."

"You're just the same." The disgust in her comment was loud.

"Did you expect me to beg you to let me out?" He replied.

She shook her head and walked back upstairs. "Dr. Lecter." He materialized like a ghost. "I'd like the keys." Polite, yet insistent.

The doctor nodded once, but remained silent as he retrieved the key from behind a William Blake painting. _A Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun_. It was an odd piece, she thought.

"I will unlock the chain." He stated plainly.

They walked one behind the other. The wooden steps solid.

"The fuck is this?!" Krendler bellowed at the sight of the pair coming toward him.

"Doctor, unlock this asshole, please. Krendler, you're going to be unchained now. If you attack Dr. Lecter, I will kill you. If you threaten him, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

The prisoner's lips thinned severely. "I got it. I've got some conditions of my own."

"You're in no position to request conditions, Mr. Krendler." Hannibal was polite as ever.

Clarice countered. "Actually, you're going to listen to my terms. We will fight. The winner walks away. No questions. No revenge killing. The winner will leave this place unharmed to live their life however they see fit. If you win, Dr. Lecter will NOT kill you or give any other person orders of influence to hunt you like the craggy dog you are. You will leave the country and live to an old age. If you violate this agreement in any way, like hurting or fucking up another person's life, you forfeit your life to Hannibal."

Krendler's hyena ears quirked at every syllable.

As did Dr. Lecter's.

She had not discussed her intentions prior to this meeting. But it was intentional.

"That faggot won't let me live when I kill you." He pointed harshly. "Because there is only one outcome, Starling."

"He will not interfere. Do you accept my terms?"

"One question, did you like it when your daddy fucked you? Because that is nothing compared to how I'm going to fuck you!"

Dr. Lecter flinched in anger and nearly ruined her plans.

"Unlock it now, Doctor!"

(O)

Hannibal watched the chaos ensue as the heavy chain clashed to the floor with a loud clank. His own muscles twisted as if in response to Clarice's body.

The prisoner had been using the weeks wisely strengthening his body hoping to subdue his own captor. Never did he believe that Clarice would be the one to take the role on with such ferocious beauty.

Her face flushed wildly as Krendler struck first.

He swiped and spun clumsily. Unused to grappling without the heavy chain.

Clarice used the clumsiness and bashed his face into the wooden railing. Blood oozed from his nose when he turned to face her.

Hannibal did not mistake her expression of blood lust.

It was upon her. Clarice's eyes dilated and narrowed- like a bird ready to flog. Her body was firm, agile. Sleek like a lioness. Never, in the months that he had known her, could he predict her reactions. She was a force of nature. He appreciated her movements, even when those movements secured a crude blow to the gut of her enemy. They fought savagely, though she had the upper hand… until anger took over.

"This is your fault! My partner was killed because of your incompetence! You don't know shit about teamwork or having someone's back. That's why he died! That's why! You pigheaded bastard. If only you had listened to me!"

She clocked his jaw. A heavy, marble sound cracked the air.

His jaw was injured. But her hand was fractured.

"It was you!" He finally screamed. "It was supposed to be you that got killed!"

They broke apart, breathing heavily.

Silence spread between them.

"You just wouldn't die. And then the indictment. And then you were suspended. And you moved. You just won't fucking die!"

"You wanted me dead from the beginning just because I wouldn't go home with you that night?" She asked.

And Hannibal, completely forgotten by now, was genuinely curious.

"Why is that so hard to believe? You fucked anything and everyone else… including that wrinkled dick, Jack Crawford. But not me! Like you were above me. You're not above me! An orphan from the boonies. Some stupid hick with a decent trigger finger and a shit ton of bad luck. Your career was fucked as soon as you took my credit for Wild Bill! You were supposed to die in that raid! Not John! He was a good cop."

No!

Hannibal watched Clarice's body unravel its taut hold. Her muscles were no longer flexed and poised. Just the position of her feet told him many things. Nearly in slow motion, he looked back at the hyena.

Krendler had been practicing this.

His eyes widened in success.

The sly demon that he was.

And if Hannibal could see Clarice's guard lessening, so could Krendler.

(O)

It stunned Clarice to hear that Krendler respected another human being. Especially one that she respected. For John was a good man. A man that didn't deserve to die. Not for her or because of her.

A second of distraction was all it took for him to strike.

She knew it a second too late.

Krendler launched himself at her torso, curled around, and stepped on her thigh to hold her to the dirty concrete floor. She twisted his sore ankle, which unfortunately, brought him down on her with a hard elbow to the gut.

She blew out and clapped a hand over his odd shaped hyena ears.

He had trouble pinning her down. Clarice bucked, clawed, and hit.

But he was heavier than she'd expected. Krendler put his full weight on her chest, reached, and felt her throat. She could hold out longer than some and had plenty of training to get out of this.

"You just…" Krendler grunted. "Take it!"

In a moment, Clarice realized that this man had raped many women this way. His erection rubbed against her leg in loud protect to the manner that she fought. That many women had likely fought in a similar way. It was the bucking and struggling. He believed Clarice was succumbing to his strength. And the bastard was getting off on it!

Hannibal's presence in the room had been ignored until this moment.

She didn't know if it was his cologne or the red glint reflecting in the distance. For he had not moved.

"Take it!" Krendler roared again.

Black spots erupted her vision, but she held strong.

It was all planned.

She moved her hips in encouragement. It sickened her to do so, but the movement gave her access to her ankle band.

The choke hold lessened a bit.

Krendler was lost in the instant; her subtle reaction took all of the murder out of his muscles. He may have been a sick bastard, intent on ruining her, but he couldn't murder another human. Never could. Not directly or hands hand. Could he give an order to kill? Obviously, he could. He admitted as much about John Brigham.

His dick was now pushing desperately against her opening. The jeans gave the only barrier of protection. Krendler grunted again, less in anger, and more in sexual frustration.

Clarice leaned up into his ear, locked eyes with Hannibal, and grinned. "Not in your wildest fucking dreams, you prick!"

Clarice bit down on those hyena lopes, scissoring the cartilage, and sinew until the flesh tore away. Reaching down to her ankle, she took a slender scalpel, and sliced inexpertly along his spine. Somewhere between the C6 and C7 vertebrae.

The paralysis was instant.

His hands slackened, dick limped, and knee gave.

She shimmied out from underneath the grimy bastard and stood. "Show me, Hannibal. Show me where." Her voice excited.

His eyes were pinpricks of red and glinted in the light of the room. He watched her as though she were a mirage in the desert. A heat wave casting a refreshing image.

Hannibal was drunk from the sight of Clarice and she knew it.

He walked to her as if following the scent of a cooling cobbler in a window sill. The kind that played on cartoons every Saturday at the orphanage where the rabbit is lured by the duck into a silly trapping contraption. He took her hand delicately, kissed it, and turned to face the now hysterical Paul Krendler.

Hannibal positioned himself behind Clarice with an arm wrapped protectively around her middle, the other guiding its way to the muscles along Krendler's back. The slices were deep enough to take away most motor functions of the former Congressman. The elbows, fingers, and ability to extend their length were severed first.

"Just enough." Clarice leaned back into Hannibal, allowing him to nuzzle her neck.

"One more should take care of his legs."

The scalpel swiped Krendler's spine again, causing paralysis to the lower limbs. Under their touch was such beautiful precision and a symphony of screams. Their heart beats synchronized to one thundering hum.

(O)

An hour passed. And another.

Clarice looked at herself in the antique mirror. She'd showered, used a lemony mint balm for sore muscles, and toweled dry. Dr. Lecter had laid out a beautiful honey yellow silk gown after wrapping her fractured hand. The dress swept to the floor even with fine golden pumps.

Her hair was pinned back wet, but striking as a deep red.

With another glance at the mirror, she smiled. The reflection was no longer a stranger.

Walking down the elegant stairwell, Clarice was greeted with a delicious scent of dinner and piano music. She let Dr. Lecter complete the piece, which was rather quickly. The final notes pulling her to him like a high power magnet.

He had changed into a fine gray suit. The tie at his neck and flower in his pocket both matched her dress.

"Smells great." She smirked at his eye roll.

"Must you be so crass?" He demanded.

"The meal smells delicious; it's very aroma is…" She wafted her hands dramatically as if to breath in the air and grinned at his expression.

He gave her a pointed look cutting off her speech.

"What? I am me. You wouldn't want me to be any different. I'm going to express myself just as bluntly as ever." She paused with a hint of uncertainty. "Is that something that you can become used to? I'm not cultured, but I am experienced. I'm hard as stone and have more brass than most grown men. I'm honest, too." She added softly. "And love deeply."

He stepped closer. His height only marginally taller making their eyes nearly level. "I love you just as you are."

They kissed. Taking their time, but not making it too passionate.

"And we'll see just how brassy you really are. Are you ready?"

She slapped on her best murderous grin. "More than."

"Come with me, my mountain woman." He teased.

(O)

Paul sat at one end of a decadent room.

The earthy smell of herbs permeated the air. The windows were open and allowed a breeze to stir the candles sitting in fine crystal candelabras. A crackling fire shifted a comfortable heat. The table was laden with some of the finest china he'd ever seen. It was modern, ornate. Colorful flower bouquets were layered stylishly around the room to create an inviting atmosphere. Tasteful and sophisticated like its owner.

His line of vision was very limited, however, much he fought against the headrest of his wheelchair.

His arms, legs, torso, neck, and ankles were strapped down tight.

Not that he could have used them anyway.

Whatever those twisted fucks did to him was disturbing. As though all of his limbs were paralyzed! His mouth too, was unable to form words. He was like Mason Verger! He imagined his own eye protruding from a scarred socket and shivered violently.

They walked into the room at just that moment.

Flowers blocked most of the far end of the table, but he caught that faggot's eye briefly.

"Clarice, as best that you can manage, will you forget that we have company and indulge me as I prepare our meal? I can assure you that we will not be interrupted."

She smirked. "Only if I can pour us some wine."

He nodded indulgently.

It was enough to make Paul gag.

If only he could.

(O)

Hannibal diced and tossed the contents into a sizzling copper skillet over an open flame. The air filled with a rich buttery scent.

Clarice watched him, closed her eyes, and breathed. It made his own mouth water just watching her _watch_ him.

A light oyster broth to begin.

Spinach salad over a dazzling conversation of travel.

He admired Clarice as she ate carefully and spoke with such animation. The candlelight's lit her face with such warmth, that his breath caught.

Hannibal watched her shift in her chair and return with an object. She gave him a carving of a Death's Head Moth that she whittled down in Florida and explained it's meaning to her. He thought that she had grown wiser since leaving him and he said so. She attributed to the company of Will Graham, whom they discussed thoroughly. There was Will Graham before the 'accident' and how he was so in tune with human nature. And there was Will Graham after the 'accident'.

The conversation was as light as happy as Clarice's dazzling smile.

And finally, the main course.

Peppercorns and parsley stalks. Salt, breadcrumbs, butter, and parmesan.

…And Paul Krendler.

He sat, eyes wide and curious. He wore a funeral tuxedo split up the back. Hannibal carefully tucked the garment around him to cover the feet of duct tape holding him in place. Hannibal peeled off the tape covering the former Congressman's mouth.

"Good evening, Mr. Krendler."

The mouth formed an 'O', but emitted no sound.

"Ah, that would be the paralysis." Hannibal turned to Clarice. "Watch as I stimulate the pharynx muscles." He was gentle and firm. "Would you like to try again, Mr. Krendler?"

"Ffff…cook yew."

Clarice's eyebrow quirked. "I'm no genius, but I'm pretty sure he said 'fuck you'."

"Do you have something to add to his, vociferous statement?" Hannibal asked with meaning.

"Yeah, yeah I do." She stood. Hannibal admired the reflection of her dress in movement. As though, she were the candle flame. "Every time you leered at me, every negative comment in my file, and through all the shit you talked behind my back. I want you to know that I didn't deserve it. You don't know anything. After this night, I will never think about you again. You are our guest! And your rudeness is over."

"Can you keep an open mind, Clarice?" Hannibal wondered.

"I think I've proved that I can." She replied.

He pulled back Krendler's hair to reveal a thin cord tied around the head. "Hand me that saw."

Her eyes widened, as she had not noticed the cranial saw next to the wheelchair. He pulled on a black rubber apron, explained that the cord went around the major blood vessels, applied a local anesthetic, and worked quickly through the skull cap.

Krendler screamed and choked until Clarice reached down and punched his pharynx.

Hannibal blinked back a chuckle and continued working. Clarice was ready with a dirty dish rag to mop any spillage, but the anesthetic caused the blood to congeal; jelly-like, it plopped into an empty china bowl.

Krendler must have passed out from shock, because the anesthetics would not allow him to feel pain. Hannibal must have explained this aloud, because Clarice asked… "Does the brain feel pain if his body doesn't?"

"It doesn't. Pass over that skull key and scalpel."

"Can I?"

Hannibal was again moved by Clarice's unpredictability. He helped guide her hand along the ridge of the cuts he made. "Ready? Pull up and backwards." He instructed and was pleasantly awarded with her curious expression. Krendler's pinkish gray brain was now visible.

She stepped back, hands wiped clean, and stared at the power of what she saw.

"Wake him, Clarice." Hannibal passed over some ammonia inhalant.

She shoved it right underneath the hyena's nose.

Krendler was clearly no longer himself. He spoke slow and slurred. "Ssstarlin."

"Paul." She replied.

"You baa-lew it." He had a hard time with the 'B'. Then he grinned. "Ha! Blew!"

"Well, still the same creep." She shrugged to Hannibal.

"You ssssstill a ssslut?" He tried to sit up and looked at his wrists when the suit around him folded away to reveal the duct tape. "Hey! Whaddidyou do?" He slurred again.

"Did you think that we could correct his behavior with a small procedure, Clarice?"

"Well, we could try."

"That's my girl."

Hannibal explained the cortex of the brain, using the scalpel as the directing instrument. The gray matter pulsed slowly with the heartbeat of their victim. His eyes rolled upward, as if he could watch as Clarice sliced into the prefrontal lobe. Hannibal quickly took the slice and dunked it into icy lemon water. Again and again, Clarice sliced as if to correct Krendler's behavior.

The former Congressman began to sing a children's tune, which mostly were just words that rhymed together.

After removing the largest portion of the prefrontal lobe, Clarice stepped back. "Are we going to eat that?"

"Always eat the rude, my dear."

(O)

Clarice felt a hot chill at those words.

"So this is what you did with all of those people?"

She watched him choose his words carefully while dipping the brain muscle into seasoned flour, and then brioche crumbs.

"Is there something better to do with them?"

"Allowing someone like Krendler to live is always a choice, but it is a choice that I'm able to make here and now. Continue with the dinner show, Doctor. For I want to be entertained."

He grinned, a view that could terrify the weak minded.

The brains were browned carefully in the copper pan on either side, dressed with a truffle parsley sauce, and garnished with a lemon wedge over a bed of blossoms.

Clarice bit into the dish and sighed. She glanced at Hannibal and saw him watching the butter shine on her lips.

Their conversation deepened and turned towards Hannibal's past.

They ignored Krendler's singing, so absorbed were they in each other. After some time though, it grew wearisome.

"Do you play string instruments, Dr. Lecter?"

"I do. In fact, over there is one that even you can play." In the corner sat a crossbow.

Clarice inspected the weapon with intensity, strung an arrow, and shot a bolt across the table into the throat of former Congressman Paul Krendler. A gurgling sound echoed in his voice box and then he was silent. Dr. Lecter didn't so much as flinch.

She put the bow down proudly. "What is the next course?"

 ****Note to Reader****

 **In the books, movies, and show, Dr. Lecter is the character "dealing" with his victims. In this alternate universe, I wanted Clarice to exact revenge. I took several liberties with the original storyline for my own entertainment and hope you enjoyed too. The books, movies, and show are amazing. Stay tuned for the racy epilogue. More to follow.**


	28. Chapter 28

Hannibal- 28

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

(O)

Hannibal removed the body and dishes from the dining room. When he brought the sorbet, soufflé, and crisp foie gras into the drawing room, Clarice greeted him with a glass of Chateau d'Yquem and coffee. When she turned her gaze to meet his, her eyes sparked in the firelight. It caused a hot chill to run down his body.

They talked about time and the rule of disorder as their teacups clinked on the wooden table.

"Clarice, I've come to believe that you have a place in my world. But I must tell you, it is one that I've secreted away from others for so long that I fear you will not acclimate."

"Hannibal," She set her cup down and missed his shiver, "have you ever thought that maybe I would say that you've made a place in MY world. You watched me and helped me dice a man's brain like yesterday's deli meat. I did not flinch. If you have room for me in YOUR world, then you should know that I have room for you in MY world."

His red lips curled in a smile as he was very pleased with her resourceful reply. She was unnaturally calm.

She sipped from her glass, hooked her trigger finger on the skinny golden straps of her gown, and let them slip down her shoulders. Her breasts were exposed and lovely. Cream on coral. Suddenly peaky in the open air.

Hannibal watched her trigger finger dip into her mouth, then, painfully slow, the finger circled each nipple. The Chateau d'Yquem droplets hung like dew off of a flower petal.

He felt himself sink before her like a worshipper. To his knees, he bowed as he took the petal into his mouth and kissed as deeply as he knew how.

She moaned, hissed, and arched her body towards him. His sleek, black head bobbed to each breast unable to decide which one he preferred as they were both equally luscious.

(O)

In a flash, Clarice flipped the role and pinned him to the sofa. She grinned wickedly when she felt his erection press against the seam of his breeches. His pupils dilated and pulse quickened. An ache clenched and caused a pulsing wetness in her feminine folds.

She chuckled at her thoughts.

"What do you find so amusing?" Hannibal's voice strained.

"Even when you're not talking out loud, I hear you in my head." She took his hand with the extra digit- the polydactyly- and guided it underneath her gown. The moment his hand discovered that she wore no undergarments was a moment that Clarice would revisit again and again in her memory.

Clothes were torn away from their flesh as if they were possessed instead of overcome by physical love. Hannibal discovered a sensitive piece of flesh below Clarice's naval. Clarice, likewise, found that grinding on his thickness was more liberating than anything she had ever known.

They made love right there in the drawing room's firelight until dawn.

Again when they woke.

And in every room that day.

Their bodies were sore, but nourished regularly and with vigorous attention.

 **Note to reader: This is just a quick chapter leading into the epilogue. Enjoy!**


	29. Chapter 29

Hannibal- 29- Epilogue

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

(O)

Hannibal guided his car to a smooth stop in front of the zoo, strolled through the main office, and into the maze of hallways to a particular lab. He watched Clarice briefly from afar as she gave final instructions to a young, female assistant.

She had already changed into her evening wear, which the young assistant found extremely impressive. As though in wonder that the director of such a prestigious establishment could wear both the khaki pant and black button down uniform and in the same day, this breath taking attire. As though, to dress in such finery should take days or weeks… but not hours. It was a silk navy, backless gown with Swarovski crystals to catch the lighting. When paired with the sharp stiletto heels and commanding tone – Hannibal had to admit that the young, female assistant could not help but openly gape.

He stood in the door jamb listening and watching. These last 6 months have been a torturous wonder, he thought. Clarice captivated him.

Just then, she turned. Likely it was the change of pressure in the air. The breathy shift causing dust motes to swirl.

Or just her keen observation skills honed into his own. Which is what Hannibal preferred to believe.

Her eyes dilated. "Damn." She said appreciatively, almost to herself.

Hannibal's head was sleek like an otter's and his nose was set in a commanding face. Not so much arrogant, as it was assured. His posture and carriage made him appear rather taller than he really was.

A grin that he only reserved for her spread across Hannibal's face. He had dressed to match; donning a navy suit, golden silk tie, and velvet box cleverly hidden from sight. "Good evening, Clarice."

"Good evening, Doctor."

Their greeting continued into their relationship. It had become something less than routine and more endearing these past months. He hoped it would never change.

"Miss Evington," she turned to address the assistant. Her lovely neck stretched at a becoming angle. Just this morning, Hannibal had nuzzled at the base of that shapely throat, "forward any calls or concerns to Director Goldstein. I'm taking the night off." Clarice had already shut off her daily ministrations; the worries, responsibilities, and tribulations of the week already forgotten.

"Yes ma'am, or Director Thrush." The girl stuttered and turned to continue monitoring a river otter nearing delivery of her first litter.

Clarice shut the door of the laboratory, turned to another door labeled Assistant Director C. Thrush, retrieved an elegant, long black wool coat, and locked the door. With her deserving promotion had come a bit of an internal scandal with Director Goldstein. Clarice dutifully ignored it, though Hannibal made a point to attend all of the functions, have regular floral deliveries, and routinely stop to make her transition a bit easier. And lessen the gossip.

As he guided her to the car and opened the door, she was greeted by his newest greenhouse blooms. A bouquet of Daphne's, Christmas Roses, and red river lilies. As usual, she selected the smallest, pinned a bloom behind her ear, and leveled a smoldering look at him.

"Aren't you gonna kiss me? Or do I have to…."

Quicker than a serpent's strike, he crushed his mouth to hers, leaving her breathless.

A few moments passed before coming up for air. He noted that she was a bit more besotted than himself. "Now, my crass seductress," He waited a beat to watch her blush return, "are you ready?"

"I might be crass, but you love my bluntness." She gave him another sweet peck and climbed inside the car.

They drove into the city to a high class restaurant.

Their six course supper was impeccable. Coratella con Carciofi with lavender artichokes, lamb's lung, braised heart, and liver. Seared fois gras. Grilled sugar quills. The wine selection changing with each palate to enhance the flavors.

The restaurant faded into the background. Waiters served dishes and filled the fine flutes. After, the couple walked to the opera house adjacent the restaurant. The brisk air welcome.

The field glasses were a matching set bought only weeks ago. A gift from Clarice that Hannibal seemed to treasure. They held box seats in the massive theater of French style. Normally, Hannibal followed the play and explained the less obvious scenes to his love. A courtesy that she relied heavily on when the language was unknown. Though, she was quickly learning most of the romantic languages, Italian one of them.

The first act was a blur of Italian prose. Hannibal's thoughts were a whirring buzz. A bee trapped inside of his prefrontal cortex.

Clarice knew her lover's mind was otherwise occupied. Instead of the proffered champagne, she brought him a glass of sparkling water. He took it with a polite nod and drank deeply.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" He asked.

She smiled secretly. "Well, I was surprised when the EYE-Talian," she pronounced in her mountain drawl, "agreed to sacrifice himself to Sheba, but you did promise me something spectacular."

"I'm glad you like it." He replied, clearly missing her sarcasm.

"Perhaps, Doctor, you will tell me what is bothering you." A hand on her hip and the clear indication that she'd not take any crap from him.

"A walk?"

They walked in silence until they reached the park. The water had a thin layer of ice that would soon thicken in the coming colder weather.

He turned away from the pond to face her. Their exhaling breath fuming in front of their faces. It was the only indication that Clarice knew he was otherwise not calm. On the outside, he seemed cool as a cucumber.

"Clarice," He began, "I want to tell you that it has been many months since I've dreamed of Mischa."

"I don't want you to forget her." She replied.

He smiled indulgently. "No, no, I don't believe you do. Though, I would say that Mischa continues to live inside of my memories."

"Your mind palace."

He nodded.

"You don't have to give her up for me. I would never ask that of you."

He waited a beat. "It has been so gradual. That when I realized I gave it up, I did so gladly."

She stepped ever closer. "You don't have to give me up." Clarice hooked her trigger finger, that lethal digit, under his chin.

Hannibal bent swiftly to his knee and held an exquisite yellow diamond engagement ring. "Clarice, my own Starling. Would you be my wife?" The gem winked in the moonlight, caught Hannibal's red pupils, and caused the very air to still.

Clarice knew that was one of the few pieces of family heirlooms left. His mother wore that until she died. She knew this like she knew many things about Hannibal. One of those things was that she would not make the wrong choice for her future ever again. That she would not follow in her father's footsteps, but make sure to make her own path. A path that she wanted Hannibal to join with her.

"Hannibal, my love. I already told you that you don't have to give me up and you can bet your ass that I'm not giving you up either."

He slipped the ring onto her finger and embraced her in the moonlight.

They skipped the rest of the play that evening and every time they attended that particular play, the couple would only remain until the first act.

(O)

A few years brought many changes for the couple. Traveling and leisure. Promotions and more property. The bloodlust was gone, but the red glint of desire never faded.

Dancing on the terrace and speaking in different languages at the dinner table.

Building a mind palace that each of them shared and grew of their own accord.

Clarice makes time for her own friends and career, but they do not hold the same place that they once held. As they are not the source of light in her life.

Hannibal, too, remembers his own tribulations before Clarice walked into his life. There are times when the hunger and lust is difficult to be sated. An evening with her, moving in slow seduction, or quick agile romps leaving each of them glowing with perspiration and burning for more.

It was the plight that drove them together and drives them onward still.

The world was certainly more interesting with their togetherness.


End file.
